Son of a Preacher Man
by PaperFrames
Summary: The year is 1971 and USS Independence is docked in Norfolk, VA for a week. Aboard is Naval aviator officer Fitzgerald Grant, looking to shake off the sea. Taking up an offer from a friend, Fitz heads up to the declining D.C, a world away from anything he's ever known, where he runs head first into a tiny woman with big dreams.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So I have a pretty good case of writer's block for my other stories, sadly. I'm trying to push through them, but alas, here I am. As a way to jump start my creativity and hopefully get me going again, I had my friend give me a prompt and a challenge. She challenged me to write a short AU!Period Olitz piece. I chose the 1970s. Anyways, I have very specific plans for this fic and a definite ending in mind.

Going to warn you that there is some violence here towards the end and some pretty harsh language. I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

-M

* * *

(1971)

For the first time in months, there's land beneath Fitzgerald Grant's feet. He wants to touch the ground, play in the dirt, and feel fresh grass beneath his toes. As a Navy man, Fitz normally loves being out to sea, but the last three months have driven mad. He no longer finds the rising and falling of the waves relaxing, but anxiety inducing. The bottomless abyss that sits before him feels like an open coffin, the lid ready to snap shut on him at any given moment. Not that he's delighted to be landlocked in Norfolk for a solid week, either, but at least docked in Norfolk meant he could get in a car and go.

A hearty slap on the back jolts him from his thoughts. He turns to find his friend Marcus grinning widely at him.

"So my future Fuzz friend, how you feel about coming up to D.C with me? Get some home cooking?" Marcus suggests, dragging Fitz with him off the dock.

They're friendship draws a few eyebrows, a few head turns, but Fitz pays it no mind. "I'm an officer, Marcus, I can't just leave port."

"Oh come on, man, don't be square. Set something up with your boy Ballard and let's go. Your kin's on the other side of the country and you've been at sea looking at my ugly mug for how long. You sure you don't want out of that damn boat?"

"I do, but —"

"But nothing, come on Fitzgerald. Make some arrangements and I'll swing you on up for some fun."

/

Nearly five hours later, Fitz lags behind Marcus as they reach Marcus's DC home in Logan Circle. He carries a duffle with enough stuff in it for a few days. It's not his first time in DC, but it's his first time outside of the Marine barracks and Logan Circle couldn't be more different from the barracks if it tried. It's a shabby section of town, run down and somewhat defeated. Signs of the 68' riots rest all about in boarded up homes and businesses.

"Shame what Dr. King's murder caused," Marcus mumbles as they pause in front of a hollowed out house.

"I know; look at this. Why do we always have to burn our own?" Harrison, Marcus's cousin, asks.

Fitz glances up at the building, the scorched brick darkly contrasted against the bright blue sky. He'd been sailing on the East China Sea when Dr. King had been murdered, organizing airstrikes against the Viet Cong, but he could still remember clear as day the sadness that seemed to ripple across the faces of his African-American counterparts, specifically Marcus. He didn't understand the impact of losing Dr. King, but empathizes deeply due to the loss of President Kennedy only five years prior.

He remains silent, respecting that he doesn't have a place in this conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a couple of kids run after a loose dog down the street. One kid carries a bucket of sloshing water, the other a brush doused in soap. He chuckles as the children dive for the dog, but the slippery pup manages to get away.

"Something amusing back there, Fitz?" Marcus asks, pivoting on his heel.

Harrison breaks away and walks back over to his 67 Chevy, checking to make sure it's locked.

"What? Oh, no - the kids," he points at the two children and the runaway dog. "The kids are cute, that's all…"

"Oh, those are Mrs. Hattie grandsons, you'll probably meet her sometime this week," Marcus chuckles as the kid with the bucket falls, the bucket landing on his head. "Wait till she finds out they've been chasing a dog all over town." He motions for Fitz to follow him to a two story white house with a large open porch.

Harrison catches up to the two, eclipsing them and reaches the top step, eyes on Fitz and Marcus. "Well, I ain't got cute kids for you tonight, I got something better. Take them things inside and get dressed in something besides them damn uniforms." He instructs.

 **/**

Less than an hour later, Fitz finds himself sandwiched in a shabby rundown bar. Thick smoke clouds the air and drinks flow. Loud soul music blares from a live band and he sits at a table. A couple of patrons eye him suspiciously and he's having a hard time loosening up.

"Fitz, my man, you've gotta relax. I promise, you're among friends," Marcus tells him, holding out a glass tumbler of amber liquid for him to take.

They're seated at a table that consists of Harrison, Marcus, and a couple of men he'd been introduced to earlier but couldn't quite remember their names.

"We're all family in here," Harrison assures, taking a drag on a joint and holding it out to Fitz. "Go on, white boy. Homegrown and dynamite so you better be careful. It'll help you unwind."

Tentatively Fitz grabs the joint. It's not his first time smoking, but it's his first time smoking in this type of environment and so openly, too.

"Sure he ain't a cop?" One of the men whose name escapes Fitz's memory asks with a raised eyebrow.

"No, Russell, he ain't a cop," Marcus shoots back. "Just a white boy."

The table breaks out into raucous laughter at Fitz's expense and he tenses. He stands out clear as day, his bright white skin popping against the deep, medium, and soft shades of brown in the building. For the first time perhaps in his life, Fitz is the only white person in a room.

"Well don't waste the weed, either pass or puff…" Harrison says hurriedly.

Fitz takes a drag, letting the smoke flood his lungs and the drug dull his senses before handing the joint over to Marcus.

"So, how long y'all docked and where you out to next?" The man next to Russell asks, but his question sits in air, unanswered because a spotlight hits the small stage and the crowd goes somewhat silent.

Russell whistles and Fitz's eyes hit the stage. His mouth immediately goes dry.

 _She's beautiful._ It's the only thought in Fitz's mind as he stares at the woman who's walked to the mic. She has long black hair that hangs down her back and she's dressed in long sleeve yellow blouse that rests high on her neck. She wears a brown mini skirt that highlights a set of long, mahogany legs. On her feet rest a pair of platform heels that make her at least three inches taller than her natural height. Her doe eyes are accentuated with large eyelashes and there's a shimmer to her lips and cheeks.

"Wow," Fitz mumbles aloud, mouth dropping open.

"Careful now, big fella." Marcus leans in. "That's my cousin and that's also Russell's woman, Olivia. Keep leering at her like that and he might not like it. We'll find you someone else to talk up tonight."

But Fitz isn't listening. She's yet to open her mouth and he's already spellbound by those high cheekbones, supple lips, and lithe frame.

"Looks like the Fuzz here might want him a piece of chocolate!" Harrison hollers, smacking the table and laughing. Behind him, the band starts up and Olivia smiles at the crowd.

"He better take his ass on and look for one of them white girls out in Arlington, that bitch up there is mine," Russell huffs possessively.

"That _bitch_ has a name, Russell. Watch what you call my cousin," Marcus threatens.

Fitz's eyes snap towards Russell who's seated across from him at his choice of words. He doesn't know Olivia, but he takes exception to her being called a bitch; she's too beautiful for such a crass descriptor. Marcus grabs his shoulders though, stopping him and pointing Fitz in the direction of the stage where Olivia stands.

She snaps her fingers, motioning for the crowd to join in, her soft curves swaying to the rhythm the crowd is building as she takes grabs the microphone, careful to avoid the cord as she brings it to her lips.

Fitz hears angels.

 _Never know how much I love you_

 _Never know how much I care_

 _When you put your arms around me_

 _I get a fever that's so hard to bear._

Her voice is like velvet, smooth and sultry as she winks and smirks at the crowd, shimmying in place, her skirt sliding up her thighs.

 _You give me fever when you kiss me_

 _Fever when you hold me tight_

 _Fever in the morning_

 _Fever all through the night_

Fitz gulps, swallowing hard, his heart pounding in his chest as she moves into the crowd effortlessly. She's confident, cocky almost as she takes command of the once restless bunch. The light follows her as she goes, careful of the cord that connects her to the stage.

Men whistle, some continue to snap, and Fitz sits, jaw damn near on the floor.

 _Sun lights up the daytime_

 _Moon lights up the night_

 _I light up when you call my name_

 _And you know I'm going to treat you right_

 _You give me fever when you kiss me_

 _Fever when you hold me tight_

 _Fever in the morning_

 _Fever all through the night_

Olivia stops at a table, sings to a man that nearly falls from his chair, soliciting a giggle from her before her eyes land on Fitz. Her plush lips curl into a smile and she licks them mewling into the mic and Fitz feels his dick jump at the sound. _Shit._

 _Everybody's got the fever_

 _That is something you all know_

 _Fever isn't such a new thing_

 _Fever started long ago_

She's on her way to the table and for a small moment she pauses at Russell, blowing a kiss before skipping around Harrison, her fingertips sliding across the back of his chair, and then she's in front of Fitz. He has the strong urge to reach out and touch her, consume her whole, but keeps his hands at his side, trying his best to stay still. It's hard though as she slides into his lap and sings to him, her fingers caressing his cheek. Parts of his body rise in reaction to her proximity.

 _Romeo loved Juliet_

 _Juliet she felt the same_

 _When he put his arms around her he said_

 _Julie Baby, you're my flame_

 _Thou giveth fever_

 _When we kisseth_

 _Fever with thy flaming youth_

 _Fever, I'm afire_

 _Fever, yeah I burn, forsooth_

Their eyes meet and Olivia freezes, her butt pressing against an unmistakable erection. For a brief moment the world slows down and the music fades away. Fitz looks at her, truly looks, and sees that not only is she breathtaking, but her eyes...they're so large and dark. Mischief rests in them, but also a bit of sadness. He licks his lips, gulping as a loud slam on the table breaks their gaze.

Russell's woman, that's right.

Olivia looks down then up quickly, her eyes slightly wide before she turns her attention back to the song, scurrying out of his lap and back up to the stage to finish the song.

 _Oh, oh, what a lovely way to burn…_

 _Oh, oh, what a lovely way to burn…_

The cymbals build into a crescendo as does the crowd. A slight red tints Olivia's cheeks; she grins, and then bows, whispering a small, 'thank you.' Just as quickly as she'd hit the stage, she disappears again.

Russell pushes away from the table and storms off.

"Wooooh-weee, I see why they call y'all rednecks now. Look at ya' face boy!" Harrison hollers, laughing madly.

Fitz finally manages to break from his stupor, shaking his head and feeling his skin. How appropriate; he's on fire. His skin burns and he's certain he's as red as a ripe tomato.

"That brown suga'll get you every time!" Harrison continues to tease and even Marcus is laughing now.

"Where's the bathroom?" Fitz asks urgently, in desperate need of cold water.

They both motion to the back of the bar, and Fitz hurries to his feet.

"I'll be your fever, baby!" A woman yells after him cheekily as he goes.

/ / /

Olivia tugs on the collar of her blouse, hot and embarrassed by what's just transpired. She can't bring her eyes to the mirror. She feels faint, warm, and flushed. The unmistakable wetness between her legs as hard to deny as the erratic pounding of her heart.

She's done this act a thousand times, but tonight that man…

He was intoxicating; the way he'd stared at her terrifying and enticing all at once. Like a moth to an open flame, she'd been drawn to him. As cliché as it was, she had been. For some reason she'd wanted to turn in his lap, straddle his waist, and see what he's made of. She almost had too; the unmistakable feel of his budding erection pressing against her butt encouragement.

And she'd done it all right in front of her boyfriend, right in front of Russell. Fuck.

 _Russell._

"Open the door, Olivia," Russell shouts through the stage door, the sound of his fist slamming against the metal shaking Olivia from her thoughts. "Open the goddamn door!"

How long has he been out there?

It's like she hadn't even been thinking out there while performing, something had taken hold of her, controlled her as she found herself singing to that white man with those soft eyes and lopsided smile. _Ugh._ She didn't even _like_ white guys.

She takes a deep breath in, preparing herself for the inevitable, and then climbs to her feet.

 _Please, please don't let him be on that stuff tonight,_ Olivia prays as she opened the door. When he's on that snow and drinking, Russell is the worst. His jealousy is maximized and his temper past volatile.

"What the fuck were you doing out there?" Russell shouts, grabbing her wrist and yanking her out of the doorway and into the dimly lit hall.

Olivia stumbles on her heels before slamming into the wall, wincing as her shoulders bounced off the plaster. _That's another bruise._

"I was singing a song, Russell, like I do almost every night. Like I have for the last two months," she states matter-of-factly. She's been singing at Old Joe's since Russell came home nearly three months ago. Before then she'd been out to Chicago and Detroit, trying to make more than menial moves to get someone to notice her. Russell doesn't like her act, doesn't like when she sings for anyone either than him, and can't understand why she just doesn't want to be his little woman in the house.

"You gotta plant your ass in some honky's lap to do it?" His grip tightens on her wrist and she tries to pull out of it. His breath smells heavily of cognac and from the look of his face, he's been doing lines again. She misses the old Russell, the Russell before Vietnam and before the jungles; the one she'd graduated high school alongside and started Howard with, the man she thought one day she'd marry.

"You're hurting me, Russ…"

"You're hurting me, Russ…" he mocks, "What about me, bitch? How you think I look? You out there all over that cracker. You got some slave fantasy I need to know about? Want to bend over for the white boys?"

"You're being disgusting. I sang a song, now stop! You're high and I don't like being around you when you're like this." She tries to yank away, but he pulls her back, shoving her into the wall harder. "Russell, ow! Let me go!" She shoves at him with her free hand.

"White man's whore your fantasy now?" He snarls.

Anger rises up her spin and she acts without thinking. With her free hand, she swats him across the face and her eyes go wide at her actions. Regret ripples across her face. "Baby, I…"

Almost immediately he returns her slap with his own, far much more power behind his open hand. Her cheek is on fire as she slams into the ground and Russell screams at her to stand up. Pain explodes across her face and she pushes herself up onto her hands. Her ears are ringing and she feels dizzy. The men's bathroom door opens and through glimpses of ruffled hair, she catches sight of someone stepping in between her and Russell.

The sounds of a scuffle fill the air, the two men struggle; fists hit bone, knees connect with stomachs and the walls shake thanks to the commotion. Olivia scampers to her feet, away from the fight, leaning against the wall for support, just in time to watch Russell tossed to the ground. The man from earlier, the one she'd sung to, is standing in front of her, his fists still clenched at his sides.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" The man hollers.

Russell gets to his feet. "This ain't got shit to do with you, white boy. Take your ass on!"

Olivia can feel her cheek begin to swell. "I'm fine, I'm fine!" She shouts, touching the stranger's shoulder. "It's okay, I'm fine." _Please go away before you make it worse._

"Get your ass over here, Olivia." Russell demands.

Olivia tries to move past the man, but he juts an arm out to stop her.

"She's not going anywhere with you," the man snarls. They're gearing up to go toe to toe again when thankfully Marcus appears.

"Fitz, Russ...what's going on here?" Marcus asks, his eyes sliding over to Olivia as he stands next to Fitz.

 _Fitz?_ Olivia repeats to herself. _What kinda name is that?_

"He was hitting her," Fitz says, his eyes never leaving Russell's.

"He _hit_ me," Olivia corrects, then curses herself silently knowing Marcus was the type to make a mountain out of what she considers a molehill.

"He what?" Marcus asks and Olivia's eyes drop to the ground.

While they aren't the closest, she and Marcus are still cousins and this entire situation is shaping up to be embarrassing as hell. It's not like Russell hits her constantly. Just when he's high and angry; he's been a different person ever since getting home from Vietnam.

"Marcus, I'm fine, please get your friend," she pleads. "It was just a little slap…"

"A little slap? I don't think so. Go get your things, Liv; you're coming home with me tonight."

"Marcus, I'm a grown woman, we're not kids any more. You don't get to tell me what to do." Olivia narrows her eyes to slits, annoyed. A staunch no sits on her lips. She can handle herself, she always does.

"Don't make me call Uncle Eli," Marcus threatens.

At the mention of her father, Olivia relents, but not before giving the hallway occupants a piece of her mind.

"Fuck you, all of you." She storms away and heads for the front door, listening as Old Joe, the bar owner, finally makes his way over to the scrimmage, flanked by a bouncer, and tells everyone to leave.

/

The trek back to her Aunt's home isn't long, especially when motivated to walk faster by sheer anger. She's pissed at her cousin and at Fitz's audacity to interfere with her life the way they had, regardless of the situation. She's been handling it for the last three months, she would continue to handle it, too. Climbing up the stairs she enters her aunt's home and tosses her coat on the hook before huffing it up the stairs and to the bathroom.

"Stop stomping like a child, Olivia!" Marcus yells behind her.

Once inside the bathroom, she surveys the damage done. A purplish bruise is forming just above her left cheekbone, right below her eye. It looks much worse than it feels, but she's embarrassed nonetheless. Her body had reacted to a strangers in a way she'd never thought possible and now look at the outcome.

And she can't believe Russell. _Ugh._ He'd promised her he'd stop that stuff. Stop shoving it up his nose and stop shooting it in his veins. She barely recognises him when he's on that stuff.

She turns on the cold water and grabs a washrag from the towel rack, wetting it and holding it against her swelling flesh. This isn't where she wants to be in life, singing songs in a bar, she's got dreams, big dreams - Diana Ross sized ones. She winces as she presses the rag down a little too hard, soothing the heat in her cheek, and then dips the rag back under the spray. She rings it out places it against her cheek then steps out into the hall in search of some ice. Her tiny body collides with something that feels like granite or solid rock.

She looks up to find Fitz standing in front of her. She might not like white boys, but lord have mercy he's a snack. Those slate eyes, dirty blonde curls, and solid body damn near call to her.

"I'm sorry, Olivia," he steadies her with a soft, oversized hand on her shoulder. A piece of hair curls against his forehead and she fights the urge to wrap it around her finger and tug it. "Are you okay?" He asks. She knows he isn't talking about their minor collision, but rather the club explosion.

"I'm tougher than I look…" she retorts, perturbed once more. It's none of this man's business. "Russell's harmless. He's just been having a hard time since coming back from Vietnam. I shouldn't have sat in your lap. That was inappropriate."

"Inappropriate is him putting his hands on you."

"I hit him first," she deflects, the skepticism that crosses his face draws her ire. "I did."

"It doesn't matter. He shouldn't have hit you," Fitz declares, the pad of his thumb drawing lazy circles on her shoulder as he holds her in place.

Suddenly aware of his hand still on her, she steps out of his partial embrace. There's a bite in her tone when she speaks next. "I don't need anyone to tell me what he should or shouldn't have done. Least of all some bright white boy from god only knows where. What happened tonight is none of your business, now excuse me." She pushes past him and heads down to the guest bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Once inside the bedroom, she yanks off her sandals and sighs in relief as her feet hit the floor. While she didn't like losing the three inches, she loved being on solid ground. She points her toes, stretches in place, and yawns, ready to retire for the night. Except there's a dirty brown duffle bag on the bed along with a pair of men's boxers. She tilts her head in confusion when a knock on the door catches her attention.

"Come in."

Fitz enters, pink coloring his cheeks as he glances at the bed and then their eyes meet. "I, uhm, I can just go sleep with Marcus if you'll just let me grab my uhm…"

"No, you stay. I'll leave. I'll just sleep downstairs on the couch," she doesn't give him the chance to respond, instead she abandons her sandals and breaks from the room, anxious to put a floor between she and Fitz.

/ / /

Fitz stares up at the ceiling, his hands underneath his head. The spring air is warm, thick with the promise of summer and the house is stuffy. He's cracked the window for some attempt at a cross breeze, but it's failed. The wind is as listless as ever.

He can't stop thinking about tonight, about the woman a floor below him and the bruise on his knuckles he'll have to explain to his superiors once he's back aboard his ship. She's tiny, full of bravado and attitude. Most of all she's intoxicating - the pull he has towards her is kinetic. When she moves, he has to force himself not to follow.

He doesn't even know her but he knows that finding her on the floor tonight is one of the scariest and most rage inducing moments of his life. He could've killed Russell had the man's hand connected with Olivia's face once more. Whether she threw the first punch or not, it didn't matter to Fitz; Olivia was too delicate to be treated like anything other than gossamer.

The feelings she induces within Fitz scare him. He doesn't even know her surname, but he knows he wants her in every way she'll allow.

Again his eyes slip closed and he imagines Olivia's lips against his, pillowy and soft. He wonders what it'd be like to suck her bottom lip into his mouth, bite down just enough to create a pleasurable sting, and then soothe the burning with his tongue. He wants to trail a hand up her bare back, sink his fingertips into her flesh, and hold her as she calls his name.

He _wants_ her.

A knock on the door shakes him from his salacious thoughts and he sits up groggily, wondering what time it could possibly be. They'd gotten back around eleven and he feels as if he's been staring at the ceiling for hours. Who could be up at this time of night?

When he doesn't answer right away, the person knocks again, and the door cracks open. Moonlight peeks in through the door and Fitz looks up to see Olivia staring at him.

"I know you're still up, I could hear you tossing and turning from all the way downstairs. Can I come in?"

Fitz clears his throat, and nods, motioning for her to enter.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** So ever have a plan for a chapter but it takes on a life of its own? That's what happened here. Drug and violence mentions ahead. Also a racial slur. Working on Metanoia next. I know this is weird, but it's a personal challenge that I'm glad you've decided to take with me.

Until next time,

-M

* * *

She isn't able to sleep downstairs, the sounds of the neighborhood buzzing beyond the bay windows of the living room serving as a distraction rather than a comfort. Above her head the floor creaks, signaling she isn't a lone soul still awake in the listless night. Thick plastic sticks to her thighs as she turns onto her back, eyes landing on the watermarked ceiling of her aunt's home. The ceiling fan moves in lazy circles, oscillating warm air around the stuffy room. She closes her eyes in an attempt to force herself to sleep, but can't. The more he moves, the more her attention is split.

Why is he awake? _Is_ he awake or is he like Russell, fighting night terrors in his unconscious mind.

Curiosity gets the better of Olivia and she sits up, pausing briefly to make certain she's alone. She can only imagine what type of scandal would erupt if someone sees what she's about to do next. Her feet lead her up the living room steps and to the second floor, careful to avoid the creaking steps. She wants to know what makes this man tick - she _has_ to know. When she reaches the door, she knocks, but he doesn't answer. As brazen and as bold as ever, Olivia invites herself in, barely registering that he's ushering her inside. Moonlight floods the small guest room that once belonged to her cousin killed in Khe Sanh two years prior.

"What kind of white boy are you?" Olivia asks bluntly, letting the bedroom door shut behind her with a soft click.

"Pardon me?" Fitz asks.

She stalks towards him, jaw dropping slightly as she realizes he isn't wearing a shirt. The way the moonlight cuts through the sheer curtains illuminates his chest perfectly and Olivia can't help but to notice all the solid planes and hard edges that make up his perfectly chiseled chest. If she squints she's certain she'll be able to see a trail of curly hair that surely dips below the sheet draped over his waist. She swallows hard, averting her gaze. There goes that attraction she'd felt earlier, the one that had led to her planting her ass in his lap. Her eyes fall to the floor and she traces the warped wood with her bare toes.

 _He's a white man, Olivia. You know he's the devil, stop salivating._

She clears her throat, lifting her eyes up to meet his, determined to focus solely on his face. "You're a white man in a house full of niggers with no cotton in sight and you're comfortable."

Fitz looks taken aback, his eyes go wide and his spine straightens. "I would _never_ say that word. _Ever._ It's ugly and disgusting."

Olivia's cocks her head, raising an eyebrow, uncertain what to make of the man in front of her. She takes in his tone, hearing the conviction in his voice laced with the affront and simply shrugs. She's been called that word so many times in the twenty-two years she's been on this Earth that it doesn't even phase her any more (or at least that's what she tells herself). She wonders if he's telling the truth or if he's telling tall tales. A white boy like him, one that just reeks of silver spoons and money to blow, has to have used it before.

"And if I said I don't believe you?" Olivia challenges, folding her arms across her chest.

"Did you come up here just to harass me?"

She chortles, smirking as he changes the subject, but she isn't about to let him get away that easily. Her father always tells her she has a habit of pushing buttons. "I told you; you're comfortable in a house full of ni—"

"If you're going to keep using vulgar language, I ask that you leave me be, it's been a long night," he tells her, rising from the bed.

His boxers rest low on his hips, cutting up mid-thigh to reveal a set of muscular, hairy legs. He's tall - at least 6'3 - how she hadn't noticed that earlier remains a mystery. She'd been right about the happy trail, too. She feels her heart begin to thump wildly against the walls of her chest. Without thinking she bites her bottom lip, fighting to suppress a moan. It's been so long since she's been satisfied in bed. Russell is a selfish lover and as of late he has a hard time performing. He's been home for two months and outside of a few blow jobs for him and an unrewarding quick fuck his first night home, she's dying.

Fitz slips his shirt on over his head, huffing angrily as he searches for his slacks. Catching on to his rapid movements, Olivia blinks hard. Confusion spreads across her face.

"What are you doing?" She asks.

"Since you seem to think I don't belong here for whatever reason, I'm going to head back down to Norfolk. Maybe find some fellow Klansmen on the way!" His voice takes on a southern twang.

Olivia's jaw drops at his theatrics and she tries to hide her shock at his change in demeanor.

"Don't be an ass!" She growled. "Stop! Sit down. It's the middle of the night and from here to Norfolk might be white and bright, but the path out of D.C isn't. There's a lot of pissed off men around these ways, too. Army or not, they'll kill you."

"I'm in the Navy," he grunted, pulling on a pair of sweats. "Besides, what's it matter to you. I'm probably just some racist redneck in your book."

"You're not. I'm just not used to friendly white men with no agenda. You stepped in between me and my belligerent boyfriend without even thinking. Most men would've just kept walking. And like I said, you seemed to be comfortable in a house full of black folks. I just don't get it," Olivia levels. "Why?"

"Why did I step in between you and your boyfriend or why I'm comfortable here?"

"Both."

Fitz sighs heavily, halting his movements. He drops back down onto the bed, working a hand over his face. "I didn't grow up in the south, I'm from California. I've been around Black people my entire life. Went to school with them, played with them. Was damn near raised by one. I went to UC Berkeley for school in the early 60s. Plus, Marcus is one of my best friends. I know it's not the best explanation, but that's all I have for you. And I wasn't completely comfortable, at least not tonight at the club. It was a lot to take in."

Olivia listens intently, her feet moving forward as she deposits herself on the end of the bed. Instead of clearing up her curiosity, though, he only serves to deepen it. Their eyes meet and she searches for signs of dishonesty in his slate irises illuminated by the moonlight. There is none and her gut tells her that he's telling the truth.

Out of the corner of her eye Olivia catches sight of his hand moving towards her. Her body moves on muscle memory and she flinches, recoiling away.

Fitz's fingers hang in midair and he frowns. "I wasn't going to hurt you, I just wanted to make sure nothing's broken."

 _Oh._ Embarrassment blooms in her stomach and she smiles awkwardly. "I'm fine," she lies. "It doesn't even hurt anymore." There's a slight throbbing just under her eyes and a soreness in her wrist, but she counts herself lucky; there's been worse.

"You asked me a question, now it's my turn to ask you one," Fitz says, rising to his feet again. He digs through the tan duffle on the floor across from the bed until he finds what he's looking for, and then returns to his spot on the bed. Slowly but surely he slides his hands, palms up, across the bed.

Olivia watches, bemusement lining her face. His fingers slide into hers then and stretch out her arm. With his other hand he pushes up the sleeve of her blouse. A litany of purplish bruises line her wrist, forming an overlapping hand mark. Her wrist, like her face, is slightly swollen.

"Just what I thought. Can you move your wrist?" He asks.

She does, wincing as a bit of pain shoots up her arm, but not enough to make her cry.

"What about your fingers, can you wiggle them?"

She does again, without wincing.

"Well, it's not broken. He bruised it pretty hard though. I've got an ace bandage here," he holds up the wrap he'd just retrieved from his bag. "I'm going to wrap your hand just to stabilize it a bit for bed. I have some Tylenol too if you'd like it for your face."

"I'm fine," Olivia repeats, wanting desperately to pull away from his touch, but can't. The kindness in his grip and the softness of his fingers stops her.

Fitz throws her a lopsided grin before he unravels the bandage and begins to wrap her hand in it. The room is silent as he works, save for the sounds of their soft breaths. Olivia allows her eyes to wander along his frame again. He looks strong, healthy. The veins in the arms of his muscles pop as he moves his hands. Her eyes move up his neck, taking note of his strong jaw before settling on the knot in the middle of his forehead where his eyebrows meet.

"How old are you?" Olivia asks.

"Thirty-two."

"Look at you, you're practically a grandfather," she jokes, wincing as he tightens the fabric.

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

"How old are you?" He turns her question back on her.

"Twenty-two, but I'll be twenty-three in September."

"Look at you, practically a child."

Olivia scoffs. "I _know_ you don't think that." She lets her eyes fall to his lap suggestively, silently signaling that she'd indeed felt his erection earlier.

A deep crimson color rises up his neck and he drops her hand, bringing them back to his body and resting them on his knees. Clearly flustered, he runs a hand through his dishwater curls. He clears his throat, speaking, "You uh, you sing well."

"Thanks. You wrap hands well." She held up her bandage hand, unable to wiggle her fingers.

"Is it too tight?"

"No. I'm good."

Fitz runs his hands up and down his thighs, wiping his palms on his sweats. An awkward silence slips between them briefly, but Olivia cuts it short.

"You said wanted to ask me a question? I got the feeling it was a more enthralling question that whether or not I could move my wrist."

"Oh, yeah. I was just wonder...uhm."

He's choosing his words carefully and Olivia already knows what he's about to ask. He's going to ask her about Russell. Her chest tightens and sighs, looking down at the somewhat frayed bandage on her hand. She never has any simple answers when it comes to Russell, at least not any more.

"How'd you get mixed up with a guy like Russell?" Fitz asks.

Olivia slides back onto the bed, leaving her feet dangling over the edge in an attempt to get comfortable. This is really none of this man's business, not even in the slightest, but she needs to talk to someone about the man that's become her monster.

"We've been together since we were fifteen," she starts, brushing back a flyaway piece of hair. "He's my dad's best friend's son. We went to high school together and even started college together. He had to drop out though after his dad died to take care of his family and then shortly after his number got called in the draft."

Fitz nods.

"He wasn't always like what you saw tonight. I mean he's always been the jealous type, but he wasn't violent. Whatever happened to him in Vietnam made him violent." She defends.

"He was on the ground over there and he doesn't talk about it, but I went to Anti-war march and I've seen the vets that come home; they're not right in the head. Russell falls into that category. The first time he came home it was a relief. I didn't think I'd see him again, not after my cousin - Marcus's brother - was killed in Khe Sanh. The second time it was bittersweet, but this time around...I don't know what's in his head. And he's using that stuff - smack. I found his needles a couple of months ago. He slapped the shit out of me when I asked him about it. That was the first time he's ever raised a hand to me." Her eyes slip closed as she recalls the day she fears will be permanently ingrained in her memory.

The backhand to her jaw had rendered her speechless, causing the drug paraphernalia to fly out of her hands as she hit the ground. He'd immediately apologized, tears in his eyes as he helped her stand back up. He'd pressed his lips to her searing cheek whispering promises of 'never again.' A lie she'd believed until a week later when he'd thrown a full plate of food at the wall just above her head, its contents shattering down onto her.

She eases her back down onto the bed and keeps her eyes glued to the ceiling. Each word she lets out feels like a relief, a small weight lifted off of her chest. "And now it just seems like every little thing I do pisses him off. He doesn't like me performing at Old Joe's; my clothes are always too this or too that. I just miss the old Russell; the Russell who used to sneak into my bedroom window and spend the night with me; the one who'd tell me how beautiful I'd be even if I was as bald as an eagle."

Next to her the bed dips and she opens her eyes to find Fitz lying next to her on his back, glancing up at the ceiling as well. "He isn't well, Olivia. I know I'm not in the army, I haven't been on the ground over there like him, but from what I've seen from sea isn't too good either. Regardless, though, he can't keep taking his frustrations out on you. One of these days he's going to really hurt you."

She sighs, turning her head slightly to look at Fitz. His profile pops against the moonlight. "I want to be Diana Ross." She pivots away from the topic at hand, uncomfortable with the direction its heading towards. Logically she knows that Russell's behavior will probably keep escalating unless he finds some help - help that isn't her - but the teen girl that sometimes controls her emotions assures her that Russell won't get better without her.

"Diana is the only Diana," Fitz doesn't push as he turns on his side to stare at her. He's giving her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You have to be the only Olivia…I have no idea what your last name is."

"We're sharing a bed and yet you can't even tell me my last name. Blasphemy." She giggles, thankful that he's shifted topics so easily. "And it's Pope."

"I didn't ask to share a bed with you, Olivia Pope. _I'm_ the guest here. You're the interloper."

"Don't worry, I'll get up in a second even though you should be the gentleman and offer to sleep somewhere else," she informs him, ignoring the fact that he'd originally had. "Also, you're the lone white in a sea full of black, so be quiet."

He chuckles and his smile widens. Olivia feels her eyelids grow heavy and begin to droop. She knows she should get up and return to the couch downstairs, but her body feels heavy and his presence is comforting. Olivia hates sleeping alone and for some reason she trusts him next to her. Again her eyes flutter closed and she tries her damndest to force herself awake, but to no avail.

/

"Well, you definitely have down the diva attitude of Diana," he shoots back, jokingly, waiting for her retort. A couple of minutes tick by and he props himself up on his elbow, staring down at her to find her eyes closed. He realizes she's asleep when he sees her chest rise and fall, and her lips part slightly.

Unable to stop the urge that ceases him, he reaches his free hand out and barely brushes his fingertips along the bruise underneath her eye. He wonders how many more she's hiding beneath her clothes and a fit of anger seizes his frame. She might be able to shake off Russell's actions, make excuses for them, but Fitz can't. He's been around men who've hit the women in their lives before and it makes him burn from the inside out.

Listening to her tonight had been both a blessing and a curse. He's grateful that she'd trusted him enough for whatever reason to tell him, but now he doesn't know how he's supposed to let her out of his sights the next few days. He'll always be worried about what's happening to her when he's not around. He makes up his mind to tell Marcus tomorrow though he knows he'll be sinking a budding friendship. He's almost fine with that thought because he wants nothing else but to be more than a friend to the woman lying next to him. He's known her for less than twenty-four hours, but she's an enigma; so tiny in stature but grand in personality. The contrast in their skin tone a non-factor in his head.

Fitz retracts his hand, letting his own eyes close, the sound of her breathing lulling him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey y'all long time no talk. My apologies. Most of you know I lost my mom in September. Her birthday's coming up soon and things have been rough for me so I had to step away. I'm trying to get back into the swing of things again. This chapter is a little short, but hopefully it's worth it.

I'm working on a Metanoia update next.

I went through and caught most of my glaring mistakes. Hopefully I got them all and I hope you enjoy.

I'mma ask that you all try not to victim blame here, too. I know its easy because Olivia's frustrating, but it's victim blaming. you don't blame the victim, you blame the perpetrator.

Happy crossover (my money's always on Annalise).

* * *

He wakes to the feel of fingertips ghosting across his cheek. Instincts take over and he flexes beneath the foreign touch and catches the hand, forgetting for a moment just where he is. A soft 'ow' grabs his attention and he opens his eyes to the most beautiful sight he's ever seen. Olivia. She's in front of him, knees tucked beneath her, clothes rumpled, and hair slightly frizzed.

The room bathes the pair in bright light that blasts through the thin white curtains. She looks at him and then to her hand caught in his. A pang of guilt slivers up his spine as he catches sight of her bandaged hand. He relaxes his hold. He hadn't been trying to hurt her; she's just caught him off guard. Nothing in the room outside of her is familiar to his eyes. The air is thick between them, charged with promise, as he struggles to sit up, refusing to let go of her palm. Olivia doesn't resist, instead she moves closer.

Neither of them say anything as Fitz brings her fingers to his thin lips, kissing the tips as an apology for any hurt he might have caused. He hears her breath hitch and his own grows ragged. Olivia licks her lips and shudders. Fitz swallows hard, taking that as his cue to keep going. He ghosts his lips from her fingertips to her palm, using his free hand to peel back the sheer sleeve of her blouse. Bruises bloom against her deep brown skin marring her otherwise perfect flesh. He kisses each bruise before pulling back to look at her face.

A handprint careens across her cheek, a purple splotch sits under her eye. She catches him staring and turns her head. Fitz's stomach tightens. She's clearly self-conscious and he's terrified, afraid that if he moves too much in one direction, showers her with too much affection she'll run. A teardrop pools at her chin and he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, tilting her chin so she's looking directly at him again. Her skin is warm, clammy beneath his fingers and he leans in, pressing his lips to her cheek. He kisses the bruise with a tenderness he doesn't know he's capable of exerting; he's so gentle with her that he shakes as he pulls away. He doesn't blink, worried that if he does she'll disappear like a cruel figment of his imagination.

But she isn't. Before he has a chance to pull away completely, Olivia catches him off guard. A delicate hand cups his left cheek and she tips his chin towards hers. She licks her lips and descends on his mouth. Without hesitation, Fitz reciprocates in kind. They exchange soft pants and breathless moans as their lips meet over and over again. An amalgamation of hunger and need drives Fitz as his tongue parts her lips; begging for entrance.

Just as quickly as it began, the moment ends.

A wolf whistle breaks them apart and Fitz turns his head to find Harrison grinning at them.

"Well, if this ain't a sight. Wooooh-weeeee."

They break apart.

"Looks like Fitz ain't the only one with jungle fever now, huh."

Olivia scuttles off the bed and nearly blazes a trail of fire as she scurries out of the room, pushing past Harrison. She keeps her head down. He whistles, shaking his head as he clicks his tongue.

"Now, I knew you wanted her, but I didn't think she'd want you. Not with who her daddy is. But look at that."

Fitz swallows hard, gob smacked. His chest heaves as he racks his brain for words, any words that will explain what the other man's just witnessed. None come to mind, however, and he moves to stand.

"Ay, ay, ay now. I'm not with the sugar shit and I ain't on my jungle either," Harrison fires off, eyes jutting downward.

Clear as day Fitz's dick sits at intention, shoving at the material of his boxers. Heat blazes across Fitz's cheeks and he falls back on the bed. He grabs the pillow he'd been using, a sweet hint of vanilla lingering on it, and puts it in his lap.

"I can explain…" he stutters, but he can't.

"It ain't what it looks like, it ain't what it seems. Blah, blah, blah. I've been on the receiving end of at least ten buckshots to the ass by husbands I tell the same thing to, white boy. Save it. It ain't my business, but if Marcus or Russell find out, you're on your own."

Fuck.

"Get dressed, Marcus said y'all's gonna go for a run."

/

He hates running.

The sun is high in the sky as they jog through Logan Circle. It's barely 8am. Some parts of the beaten down neighborhood buzz with life as people start their day. Other parts are dark and dim, hollowed out and boarded up, the signs of the 68 rebellion everywhere. Fitz keeps quiet as he jogs in place, keeping pace with Marcus. They don't talk as they run, rounding the corner that leads back towards the house.

"I'm sorry about Olivia last night. That was - uh - I can't say out of the usual for my cousin. Sometimes that girl lives for the drama, but Russell…" Marcus breaks the silence first, slowly to a walk.

Fitz gulps, running a hand over his sweaty face. Harrison's held true to his words, but that doesn't stop Fitz's nerves. He doesn't know what Marcus would say if he found out about he and Olivia - hell, Fitz doesn't even know what to say; she'd completely caught him off guard - but he doesn't think Marcus will take too kindly to it. And frankly, he's appalled by his own behavior. He should've stopped her and not taken advantage of her obvious questionable mental state.

Fitz slows into a slow gait, falling in step. "You, uh, you think it's like that all the time between them?" He asks, choosing his words carefully.

"Probably not. Russell is a good guy, I've known him forever. He's got some issues, but he's seen some shit in Vietnam. He'd had too much to drink last night, that's all."

A sourness rumbles in Fitz's stomach. Does he tell Marcus what he knows or does he keep his mouth shut? Is this even his business. Just because he's enamored by Olivia doesn't mean…

He thinks about the bruise beneath her eye, the tear she'd shed and the bruises he'd seen.

"She told me last night that he's hit her before," Fitz blurts out.

Marcus stops. "Excuse me?"

"We, uh, we talked for a minute. She said he hits her."

"And when did y'all talk? I know Olivia, she's a private person, she's not just going to tell a stranger something so personal and out in the open."

Fitz swallows, wonder if he'd just confessed to spending the night with Olivia.

"You sure she said he hits her?"

"Yeah, I guess it started when he came home. You know when he goes back on tour?"

"I didn't even know his tour was over. He just went back in December." Marcus picks up his pace again. "If he's really hitting her and I tell my uncle - Olivia's father - he'll kill him. Protective ain't even the word for the way that man watches Olivia. I'm surprised he even lets her out of his sights half the time. He kills Russell, that'll tear Liv apart."

Marcus's words fade into the distance as Fitz's heart thumps in his chest, blood thrumming in his ears as he runs through the math in his head. The average deployment for a combat soldier bordered on a year. Olivia had told him last night that Russell had been home for two months. Something isn't adding up.

/

Her lips are still swollen and his kisses fresh in her mind. She's never felt an attraction like this before. She's drawn to him and she _hates_ it. Not only is he good looking, but he's kind, too, and she can't quite understand why. For as long as she can remember, her father's been warning her about the nastiness of white men - she's witnessed it first hand in the newspapers and on the TV - but she doesn't see that in Fitz. The way he'd taken care of her wrist, the way he'd caressed her cheek, and kissed her lips doesn't scream evil white man. He hadn't in any shape or form tried to take advantage of her; he's different.

He's different and it's driving her crazy. She would rather he calls her a colored girl or a nigger, spit and kick dirt at her - then she'd know how to deal with him. But this kindness, this softness, she needs it to stop.

She tucks a frizzed lock of hair behind her ear, feeling as the slight wave of her natural curls starts to peak through. Harrison sits at the kitchen table with the newspaper; Nixon's up to no good again.

Harrison sips on his coffee and Olivia avoids his gaze. Unlike Marcus, Harrison isn't her kin, but he's been around for so long he might as well be; they've known each other their entire lives.

"Auntie Thea still make the house breakfast?" Olivia asks, pulling out eggs and orange juice as she hears the floor creaking down the hall, the universal sign that her aunt's risen.

"Only when she has a house full. Which ain't often. She says you stay away."

Olivia swallows, eyes dropping to the floor. She does stay away from her family, not because she doesn't love her arms warm and understanding nature, but because it hurts to be in this house. Since Michael's death in Khe Sanh, the atmosphere of the house has changed.

"I'm glad you're here with her. She doesn't need to be alone," Olivia shifts the subject. "Even if you're getting out of serving because it goes against your _religion._ "

"Hey, hey now. I am a member of the Nation, if religion works for those white boys it works for me. And when it stops working, _oh Canada…_ " Harrison laughs, sipping from his coffee once more.

"You wiggle out of everything."

"Not true, I got the buckshot to the ass to prove it. Neither me nor Mrs. Robinson heard Mr. Robinson coming home."

Olivia chuckles, shaking her head as she begins to pull down pots and pans for breakfast.

"And what about you, Liv. I ain't said nothing about earlier because it ain't my business, but you're basically my kin. Don't get caught up in something that ain't for you."

She pivots, frying pan in hand, ready to tell Harrison to mind his own business because there isn't any business to mind, when her aunt enters the room.

"Livvie, baby, I thought I heard you!" Althea Pope smiles at her niece, and envelopes the young girl in a half hung. "I guess I gotta have a house full of men to get your attention, huh?" Althea comments, her hand running over Olivia's swollen cheek, a look of concern clouding her eyes. "Baby what happened? If my brother saw this…."

Olivia yanks away. "It's nothing, Aunt Thea, I was mugged coming out of Joe's last night."

Harrison coughs from the corner.

"Mugged!" Thea shouts, hand on her chest. "Lord, no. I just… this neighborhood takes a little bit of my soul each day. Let me get you some ice. I'm glad they just mugged you. Lord, my Jesus," Thea rattles on. "Weren't you boys at Joe's last night, how'd y'all let this happen? And where was Russell?"

Olivia cuts her eyes towards Harrison and he opens his mouth to speak, but is cut off by the sound of Marcus and Fitz entering the room.

Almost instantly Olivia feels her heart go mad in her chest. It thumps wildly at the sight of him. He's glistening, his muscles sweaty beneath the grey t-shirt stretched across his chest. Olivia suppresses a moan as the feeling of his fingertips dancing across her skin flashes across her memory.

 _Will he just leave already?_

"Where was Russell when?" Marcus asks as he tugs down two glasses and moves towards the sink, filling them with water. He hands a glass off to Fitz.

"When Olivia was mugged last night, look at her face!" Thea shrieks, reaching for Olivia's face, but Olivia pulls away.

"Mugged?" Marcus repeats.

Olivia closes her eyes, waiting for the boom, waiting for Marcus to repeat what he now knows about her, but he doesn't.

"Liv, can I talk to you for a moment?" He asks instead.

She rolls her eyes as she sets down the frying pan in hand and Marcus sets down the water glass. They head into the living room and Olivia folds her arms across her chest. Her bottom lip juts out and she tilts her head. She's expecting a lecture about making a scene last night, but what she gets is far worse.

"Fitz told me what you told him last night, about Russell hitting you all the time."

Her heart sinks and she narrows her eyes in the direction of the kitchen. She'd told him in confidence.

"Olivia, how long has Russell been abusing you?"

Anger pools in her belly and ignores the fact that she's walking proof of her boyfriend's abuse. "He doesn't. He'd never. I don't know what your _cracker_ said to you, but he's _wrong,_ " she spits, venom drips from voice.

"Have you seen your face?"

"I have, okay! I have. And you don't get it. You can judge him all you want, but you don't get it. You're out at sea, you're not even doing anything real. Russell is. Don't judge him. Don't." Her voice is dangerously low.

"Look, Olivia, you sort this out or I will. And I might just have to sort it Uncle Eli's way."

Olivia takes a step back, her knees feeling weak beneath the weight of his ultimatum. Out of the corner of her eye she catches sight of Fitz; her sudden attraction turns into strong disgust.

"Tell Aunt Thea I'll be back when you two leave," Olivia declares, tearing from the room. The screen door vibrates on its hinges as she goes. She feels like she's going to throw up.

A small part of her, one she doesn't want to acknowledge, knows Marcus is right, but fuck him. This isn't any of his business. Just like it isn't Fitz's. She'd told him everything last night in confidence and he'd told her secrets to whoever would listen.

She's halfway down the block when she hears him behind her.

He shouts her name down the street and once he's near enough, she stops. She rounds on him and with her well hand, swatting him as hard as she can across the cheek.

A chorus of 'ooooohs' crack the air and Olivia looks across the street to see Mr. Johnson and Mr. Robinson on their porch. The two old men rub elbows and howl with laughter.

Fitz holds his cheek and Olivia steels herself for the worst. She waits, a mixture of fear and defiance swirling in her stomach, for him to knock her down and around. Russell would've. But he doesn't. He takes a step back, both his hands raised in surrender.

"I'm just trying to help you," Fitz insists, his tone pleading.

Once she's confident he won't be hitting her, she squares her shoulders, and locks eyes with him. Errant tears roll down her cheeks. "Stay away from me."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Hey folks, sorry about the delay. As I've said in my other stories, my health took a nosedive last month and I'm trying to recover. It hasn't been easy, but I'm getting there.

I know a lot of readers have the same question for authors: now that Scandal's concluded will we finish our stories? I do plan to finish mine. So as long as you're here to read, I'll be here to write. It's actually better for most of us now that Scandal's ended. We don't have to worry about how SR will kill our vibe.

As for the finale, I'll say I wasn't disappointed because I didn't have high hopes.

Trigger warning this chapter for violence, assault, a bit of vulgar and racist language.

Song is 'I Never Loved a Man (The Way that I Love you)' by Aretha Franklin

* * *

A mixture of emotions swirl in the pit of Olivia's stomach as she sits at the upright Steinway piano that Russell complains takes up too much space, in the living room of their small one bedroom apartment. Her delicate fingers move across the black and white keys she knows inside and out; even the pain in her fingers won't stop her from what she loves. Her eyes are closed and her head tilted back, chin towards the ceiling as sound pours from the instrument.

This is her escape: Music. The only solace she's ever had in a world far too unkind to those who look like her. Sheets of notes - her music and music she's trying to learn- are strewn along the top of the antique Steinway. She's been writing and reading music since her childhood, turning the cacophony of sounds in her head into melodies. While she'd studied political science and history at Howard, she's always been a musician at heart. Her father, Elijah Pope, a WWII veteran, activist, and attorney, thinks her musical ambitions to be pipe dreams, but she's determined to prove him wrong.

Two lone tears slip down Olivia's cheeks as she continues to push on, the song in her heart yearning to break free. The previous morning plays on an endless loop in mind. A mixture of betrayal and shame swirls in the pit of her stomach. The stranger with the lush curls and bright blue eyes she'd confided in betrayed her. She curses at the thought, silently berating herself for being so foolish. What would her family say? Would they blame her? Think she deserves it? Side with Russell? It's no secret how fond the Pope Patriarch is of Russell Robinson. Eli believes Russell to be a good man, a good _Black_ man, and he is underneath it all.

Isn't he?

A part of her - a part that she's been silencing and shutting down since the first time Russell had knocked her down - knows Fitz's betrayal isn't malevolent in nature. Neither is Marcus's concern, but that doesn't stop the anger from cutting through the shame and betrayal.

This isn't Fitz nor Marcus's story to tell. It's _hers._ And hers alone.

Her fingers still against the keys, the anger bubbling to the surface in the form of sound. She hits the keys hard, forcing the bluesy notes she's taught herself to play to come out of the piano.

 _You're a no good heartbreaker,_

 _You're a liar, and you're a cheat_

She's sick of them men in her life, whether she's known them for five hours or fifty years, make decisions for her.

 _And I don't know why_

 _I let you do these things to me…_

She's a grown woman and she'll be damned if she lets any of them continue to control her.

 _My friends keep telling me_

 _That you ain't no good,_

 _But, oh they don't know,_

 _I'd leave you if I could_

 _I guess I'm uptight_

 _And I'm stuck like glue_

 _Cause I ain't never_

 _I ain't never, I ain't never, no, no_

 _loved a man_

 _The way that I, I love you_

Her voice is raspy, gruff as she belts out the bluesy notes originally sung by Aretha Franklin, forcing the piano to keep up with the pain pouring from her lips.

 _Some time ago I thought_

 _You had run out of fools_

 _But I was so wrong_

 _You got one that you'll never lose_

 _The way you treat me is a shame_

 _How could ya hurt me so bad_

 _Baby, you know that I'm the best thing_

 _That you ever had_

Tears pelt her cheeks, cascading down the sharp bones as her body works together to produce the song.

 _Kiss me once again_

 _Don't ya never, never say that we we're through_

 _Cause I ain't never_

 _Never, Never, no, no_

 _loved a man_

 _The way that I, I love you_

Her bare feet work the pedals and her fingers continue to pound vigorously. Eventually she knows a neighbor or two will come to complain, but right now she needs this escape. The tears dry as she arches into the sound, voice like broken glass as she soulfully belts out the remaining verse.

 _I can't sleep at night_

 _And I can't even fight_

 _I guess I'll never be free_

 _Since you got, your hooks, in me_

 _Woah, oh, oh yeah…_

Lost beneath the music, Olivia doesn't hear the door to her apartment open nor shut as she slowly lets the song begin to draw to a close. It's only when she feels the heat of a body next to hers that she realizes she has company. Her fingers freeze over the keys.

 _Russell._

Slowly she opens her eyes and turns to find her boyfriend sitting on the piano bench besides her. His expression is indecipherable, almost neutral as he reaches up to grip the fallboard. Save for the buzzing of the refrigerator and the pounding of Olivia's heart and her ragged breaths, the room is quiet. Russell is the first to break the silence.

"Where were you?" He asks, voice level.

He isn't high. Or at least Olivia doesn't think he is as her eyes wash over him. His clothes are rumpled, the same set he'd had on at the club the night prior, but his hair brushed and there aren't any band aids over fresh track marks. He almost looks like the Russell who used to kiss her silly beneath the lantern on the back porch of her family home. _Almost._

"I stayed the night at my aunt's house. Marcus made me stay after…." Her gaze falls to her fingers, the words are stuck in her throat.

Gone is the fiery woman from moments ago unleashing her anger in song; she's been replaced by the woman too used to walking on eggshells in her own home.

"Baby," Russell whispers, his hand moves towards Olivia's face and she flinches away, he catches her chin between his index and thumb, stopping her from turning completely away. "I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean to, I would never hurt you on purpose. Ever. I just get so damn jealous when other men...That wasn't me back there, you know me, Olivia."

"You've said that before, Russ," she tells him, pulling her chin from his grasp and looking away.

"And I mean it this time," he asserts, leaning in to kiss the bruise on her cheek. The faint smell of Cognac waifs from his pores and Olivia pulls away. She gets to her feet, looking to put space between them and moves towards the kitchenette that completes the open floor plan of the living area. She stands on the opposite side of the small round table kitchen table. Her eyes fall on the vase that sits in the middle of the table; it's full of fresh flowers.

Marcus's voice pops into her head.

 _Sort this out, or I will._

"If you mean it," Olivia starts, trying to choose her next words carefully, "I...you need to get help."

Confusion colors Russell's face. "What?"

"I love you, Russell, but your temper and the drugs… I know it's because of the war. You need to talk to someone. Go to the VA or something. There are resources; the Nixon administration is actually doing something good on that front. Russell, you're not, you're not the boy I fell in love with you're someone I don't recognize..."

He cuts her off, slamming the fallboard of the piano shut. "And you're fucking perfect?" He shoves the sheets of music resting on top of the piano to the floor as he gets to his feet.

Olivia jumps at the sound, watching as his dirty boots leave footprints on the sheets of music, some hers and some songs she'd been trying to learn.

"I didn't say I was perfect. I'm not, but I can't stay with you if you're going to keep acting like this. The drinking, the drugs. You won't talk to me about what happened over there so I can't help you if you don't talk to me. I'm tired of only getting anger from you," she explains.

"So, you're leaving me like everyone else?" Russell demands, eyes filling with fire.

"No, Russell. I'm asking you to get help!"

"Help for what?" he screams, punctuating his words by kicking over the piano bench. "You know what, Olivia, you're just like everyone else. I put my ass in the jungle with Chinamen shooting at me and for what? You? This country that wouldn't even spit on me if I was on fire?"

"That's not true, Russ. You know it isn't!" She contends, judging the space between where Russell stands and the hallway that leads to their bedroom. She'd rather lock herself away and listen to him beat on the door for an hour or two than let his anger explode on her in an open setting.

"Was that white boy at Marcus's last night?" he asks and Olivia's eyes goes wide. She raises a brow wondering where this change of subject's come from.

"What?" she asks.

"He the reason you wanna leave me all of a sudden? You were pretty damn happy sitting in his lap last night, y'all get better acquainted?"

Glimpses of the morning flash through her memory; Fitz's lips on hers, his soft touch and gentle caress that'd almost brought her to tears. Her eyes fall to the flowers, but quickly find Russell's face once again.

"No."

But Russell isn't satisfied with the answer. He moves quickly, closing the distance between he and Olivia in two long strides. She scrambles around the table, trying to run towards the hallway, but Russell's lengthy limbs leave Olivia at a disadvantage. His hand closes around Olivia's wrist and she yelps, hitting her hip off the table and knocking the vase of flowers over. The vase doesn't break, but water floods the tabletop. His grip is tight as he pulls her around the table and against him, and then pivots her into the wall.

"You fuck him?" Russell asks. "You his bed-wench now?"

"You're hurting me again. You just said you wouldn't, Russ." Olivia tries to peel his hand off her wrist, his fingers are digging into the bruises from last night.

"Did. You. Fuck. Him?" He growls, his stale breath hot against her cheek.

"No!" She yells, shoving at his chest, yet he doesn't relent.

"Was it good? Fulfill every fantasy you ever had?"

" _Stop_."

Russell's snarls, his features contort into a menacing glare. His jaw locks, his chest heaves, and rage seizes his frame. He slams his hand into the wall above Olivia's head causing pieces of plaster to chip off and fall into her hair. She ducks her head and tries again to push him off, pull out of his grip, but can't.

He reaches for the hem of her skirt with his free hand and yanks it upwards. His fingers climb higher, ghosting beneath the band of her underwear. Olivia struggles against him, adrenaline pumping through her body.

Russell is by no means a small man. He has long limbs, strong arms, and an imposing frame, but Olivia keeps fighting. She shoves at his chest and arms as he paws at her clothes and body. He tries to kiss her, but she turns away. His chapped lips land against her cheek and he twists her wrist, causing her to cry out in pain. He tries again to kiss her and once more Olivia turns her head, he moves to grab her chin, but somehow only manages the sleeve of her blouse instead, ripping the fabric. She wedges her free arm between them and digs her nails into the skin of his collarbone. She manages to break skin, causing Russell to hiss. He yanks her nails out of his chest and seizes her wrist, forcing it above her head.

He's never been violent like _this_ before.

"I can't touch you, but he can?" Russell shouts in her face. "Huh?

"Please, _stop._ " Olivia pleads as tears roll down her cheeks. She's never been this afraid of him before.

Finally relenting, he lets her go.

Olivia's knees give out and she slides down the wall, shaking. A strange mix of terror and numbness courses through her body as she holds her sore wrist. She doesn't look up and tries not to move as he still stands over her.

"Everyone's left me. You're not leaving me, Olivia. I'm not letting you," Russell threatens. He pivots on his heel and storms from the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

/

Fitz rubs the scratch mark on his lower jaw, bouncing on his heels as he enters Fort McNair. His thoughts only consist of Olivia as he watches soldiers of different rank bounce in and out of the army base as he wakes his way through the building. He wonders if she's okay at this moment or if she's fighting with the monster that was once a man. The latter of his thoughts scare him; he doesn't know if he'll see her again before he heads back to port, but he knows if he does and there's another bruise on her porcelain skin, he'll lose it.

"Well I'll be damned, if it isn't the second sorriest Grant in the family!" A booming voice breaks through his thoughts. He looks up to find Major General Steven Howard bounding down a hallway and towards him.

Major General Howard is a tall balding man with too many teeth and a tight grip. Fitz's known Major General Howard for as long as he can remember. The man is a family friend, a former classmate of Fitz's Father.

"What do I owe this pleasure?" MG Howard questions, holding his hand out to shake.

Fitz takes his hand, grinning at the older man as he flexes his strength in his grip.

"I'm docked down in Norfolk and a buddy of mine invited me up to see D.C. Gotta say I'm not impressed," Fitz jokes.

"Yeah, those damn apes tried to burn it to the ground when their leader died. Don't know how long it'll take to rebuild, but in the meantime, we've got a war to win." Howard ushers Fitz towards his office.

"They're not 'apes,' sir," Fitz corrected, but Howard waves him off.

The older man takes a seat behind his desk and kicks his feet up on the warped wood. "So, Grant, what brings you to my domain?"

"I need information on a soldier."

Howard raises an eyebrow. "Is he active? If he is, you know I can't give out any information. I know you're a Navy man, but even so…."

"He is, but he's currently home on leave. I just need to know when he's scheduled to deploy again." Fitz takes a seat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He doesn't know what he's going to do with the information if Howard gives it to him, but for his peace of mind, he needs to know how long until Russell's gone. Once he has a timetable, he needs to figure out how to set up a friendly fire.

"Fitzgerald…"

"I wouldn't ask if it weren't important, sir."

"This soldier owe you money or something?" Howard chuckles.

If only.

"No," Fitz chuckles, too, but doesn't elaborate.

"Alright, son. What's the name?"

Fitz sighs in relief and stands, digging into his pocket for the piece of paper Marcus had hastily scrawled Russell's full name and birthdate onto earlier that day. "Russell James Robinson, Negro, born August 7th, 1948."

"Robinson, Robinson, Robinson…" Howard repeats, climbing to his feet and heading to his door. He disappears into the hall.

Five and then ten minutes pass, leaving Fitz to wonder if the Major General is returning. He climbs to his feet, aiming to go in pursuit of the man, but the office door swings open. Howard stands before Fitz with a file in hand.

"You know where Robinson's at, Grant?"

Fitz shakes his head, confusion causing his eyebrows to uptick. "No, but I might know someone who does. Why?"

"He's AWOL and under the strong suspicion of desertion."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I sat down to finish the Metanoia update giving me one hell of a hard time right now and instead this came out. I go where my muse drags me. I haven't forgotten about it, though.

trigger for racial slurs.

lyrics are from the Nina Simone version of 'Summertime'

please don't kill me for the end.

* * *

Old Joe buzzes with life. The jukebox roars, smoke floods the room. Most people steal glances at the stage, quirk an eyebrow at Olivia, but keep moving. She isn't even supposed to be up here — she'd called Joe hours ago to tell him she was going to be a no-show. She'd been too far upset to leave, but then she'd started to drink. It almost makes sense to her now, why Russell drinks; she can't feel most of her pain.

She has had one too many drinks to drink. One too many glasses of cognac had tipped towards her lips, making it nearly impossible for her to walk across a flat surface without clutching onto a chair or passing patron for assistance. She has no business trying to be on a stage, the dim lights of Old Joe's are blinding in her current state. Yet here she is.

Instead of standing and commanding the stage as she had the night before, Olivia holds onto the mic stand as she teeters on heels, squinting her eyes at the lights. She's hot underneath the long sleeve dress that sits just above her knees; flushed beneath the caked on foundation that hides the bruise beneath her eye. She's a wreck, but the only way she knows how to make herself feel better is to sing her pain away. Since childhood, singing has never failed her, and she couldn't stay inside of her apartment. Each crevice of the tiny space holds a demon.

Tears threaten to rise to the surface once more and the room tilts around Olivia. She grips the mic stand tighter, holds it closer.

Why is she up here again?

There's too much alcohol coursing her body for her to think straight. She remembers the day in vignettes, snapshots. Each recollection making her head pound. Or maybe it's the alcohol?

Her lips bump against the mic, red lipstick smudging against the speaker. She starts to mumble the the only song that comes to mind.

 _Summertime and the livin's easy_

 _Fish are jumpin', and the cotton is high_

 _Oh yo' daddy's rich and yo' ma is good lookin'_

 _So hush, little baby, don' yo' cry_

"Baby, what you tryna do up there?" Someone yells and she closes her eyes. Her head starts to throb. "Honey, get down before you hurt yourself!"

 _No!_ She hisses internally. _No…._

The room tilts again and Olivia lets go of the microphone. She turns away from the crowd and stumbles towards the stairs. Somehow she lands on her hands and knees, crawling as the ground shifts beneath her. The world around her is blurry and her cheeks are wet as she crawls towards the short stack of stairs tucked behind a curtain.

 _I would never hurt you on purpose._

 _Russ, you're hurting me, again…_

 _You're not leaving me, Olivia._

Russell's voice barrels into her as she maneuvers her legs around so she's seated on the steps. Her forehead is pressed against the stone wall and she hangs onto the wood railing. She's hot, so hot.

"Olivia?" The voice comes at her through a fog, a dense haze, but the tone is familiar. Even in a drunken state, she finds herself leaning into it.

"You got her from here?" Another voice asks. It sounds slightly similar to Old Joe himself.

"I'll take her to her aunt's. Miss Thea will be happy to have her for the night."

"Alright, be careful with her."

The voices continue their back and for and Olivia closes her eyes.

"I will. Come on, Livvie…"

Olivia lifts her head at the sound of a nickname only a handful of people use for her. Her brows knot at the figure standing in front of her.

"Are you okay? Olivia?"

She chortles, snorting at the sight of him. Such luck, what a fucking curse. The last time she's seen him, he had her handprint splashed across his cheek. "Fitz?"

"Let me help you up."

He holds out a hand for her to take and she grabs it, forgetting that she's mad at him for his loose lips. His palm is warm and his grip comforting as she slides her hand into his.

"How much did you drink?"

Olivia shrugs her shoulders, teetering forward on her heels; she lets go of the railing and grabs onto his shirt. His muscles are tight beneath her fingers and she feels the heat in her rise.

"Woah there, careful…" Fitz says as he grabs her waist, steadying her.

"I stopped counting after three," she tells him, squinting upwards. "Have you always been this tall?"

"No, I haven't," Fitz answers, giving her a somber smile. "Liv, you...did something happen after you left your aunt's?"

 _Yes. He tried to…._

"No."

"Olivia…"

"What are you doing here? I don't see Marcus — Marcus isn't here, is he?" she asks, peeking around Fitz in search of her cousin. If he's here, she'll never hear the end of it.

"I don't think he is. I haven't seen him. I'm here looking for you. Russell here with you?"

She tenses at the mention of Russell, going rigid in Fitz's arms.

 _Did you fuck him?_

"No."

"Do you know where he's at?"

She shakes her head, the grip she has on Fitz tightening as a wave of nausea washes over her. She leans her head against Fitz's chest, drinking in the feel of his chest and his clean scent. The comfort she automatically feels at his presence baffles her. They've known each other for a total of two days and their lives couldn't be more diametrically opposed, but for some reason — even in her drunken state — she finds comfort in him.

Somewhere in her alcohol addled brain, she knows she should push him away. Russell isn't here right now, but who's to say he won't come through the door any second. Who's to say someone in the bar isn't watching her and will tell him later. Still, Olivia doesn't move. Her head buzzes, the room continues to tilt.

His hand that rests on her waist slides around her tiny frame and he cages her between his arms, holding her close. "Did he do something to you?" Fitz's voice buzzes in her ear, his lips brush against its outer shell.

The warmth of his breath and the cadence of his voice causes Olivia to ease into his hold. She pulls back, head tilted upwards to look at him. "Take me home, Fitz. Please take me home."

/

Olivia is drunk. Whatever she's had to drink tonight, she's had double what she should've. Thank goodness she's light, easy to hold as Fitz carries her through the streets of D.C. on his back. Every now and then they stop and Olivia points them in the opposite direction. He'd told Old Joe he'd take her to her aunt's, but Olivia is adamant she return to her apartment.

Fitz doesn't mind. He needs her address for Major General Howard since Marcus doesn't know. Honestly he wouldn't mind running into Russell himself right about now, either. He's seen the fresh bruises on her wrist. When he'd left for Joe's that evening, he'd done so in the hopes of catching Russell and calling Howard to come retrieve him.

"Go right, and it's the corner!" Olivia slurs against his ear.

Fitz hesitates, pausing a moment. "You sure?"

"I think I know where I live."

"Yeah and I think we've been by that building twice already. You've yet to say anything about it being where your apartment is."

"I know where I live, Fitz! I know because my daddy threw a fit when he saw it. So go right or I'll get down." She wiggles against him, threatening to get down.

He wants to scream at her stubbornness, yell at her to sit still but instead goes right, grunting out a sigh of displeasure. She's so goddamn frustrating he can't take it anymore. Why can't she see that he's just trying to make certain she's alright?

"Thank you," Olivia says, tightening the grip she has around his neck.

/

The third time proves to be the charm as they stand outside what Fitz hopes is her apartment. The hallways light flickers and Olivia struggles with the set of keys in hand. There are only four keys on the ring, but none seem to fit as she struggles with the door.

"Are you sure this is your apartment?"

Olivia doesn't answer, she holds out the key ring to him and rests her head against the door.

Fitz suspects she's a few minutes away from throwing up, but takes the keys nonetheless. The first key he tries fails and he raises an eyebrow in Olivia's direction; the second key fails too.

"This is my apartment…" she mumbles. "Next key."

He does as he told and once again on the third try the lock clicks and the door creaks open. Olivia moves to push it, but Fitz stops her. He makes certain she's behind him and that he's braced for a fight before pushing it all the way open.

The apartment is dark and Fitz feels for a light switch along the wall. Behind him an impatient Olivia sighs.

"Fitz…"

"Just one second…"

"He's not here, if that's what you're waiting for. If he were, you two would already be fighting. Now move so I can find the light," Olivia says as she crawls underneath Fitz's arm and into the dark apartment.

Suddenly warm white light floods the apartment. Fitz steps in behind Olivia and suits the door behind them, locking it. He takes in his new surroundings as Olivia drops her purse on the kitchen table, next to a turned over vase and uncapped bottle of cognac. His eyes flit about and he catches sight of a fist sized hole in the wall and he feels his stomach tighten, anger budding in his gut.

"I'm sorry it's a mess," Olivia mutters as she stumbles out of her shoes and moves towards the hallway, swaying on her feet.

Mess is phrasing it lightly. The more Fitz takes in, the angrier he becomes. There are sheets of music notes haphazardly spread out on the floor, muddy boot prints smudging the notes. The piano bench is turned over and the pillows Fitz suspects would normally sit on the couch are thrown on the ground. He draws the conclusion that Olivia and Russell fought.

"Fitz!"

His head snaps up and his rushes towards the sound of Olivia's voice. He tries the first door he sees and finds the bathroom. Across the hall sits another door, this time he finds towels and sheets. Finally his eyes land on the door at the end of the hall and three must be his lucky — or unlucky — number tonight.

"Fitz, I need you."

The floorboards creaks beneath his feet as he takes the hurried steps. Worse case scenarios flash through his mind, but he tempers them, remembering her reassurance at Russell's absence. Once he reaches the door, he lifts his hand to knock, but finds it partially open. Carefully he pushes the door open. Immediately his mouth goes dry.

She's a vision before him, sitting on the edge of her bed dressed solely in her pearl white bra and panties. Fitz feels his khakis tighten as other parts of his body begin to stiffen. He gulps, hard, all words and sensibilities escaping him.

"You can come sit down, I don't bite. Unless you want me to," Olivia whispers, batting her lashes and pointing her toes before swaying to her feet.

His eyes stay on her as she moves towards him, unabashedly roving her body. He doesn't know what she's doing, doesn't understand, but he can't bring himself to stop her. With each step she takes he feels his heart beat speed up, his breath hitch higher, and any sense he has is silenced.

He wants to devour her whole. The same attraction he'd felt those two nights ago barrels back. He licks his lips as Olivia slides into his arms, standing on her tippy toes. She tilts her chin upwards and catches his bottom lip between hers. He's hesitant as he moves his mouth against hers, but once she doesn't pull away nor disappear from his grasp, he relaxes. It only takes a few seconds before he's lost in her kiss. His hands begin to roam her body and Olivia's fingers find the button on his pants.

"I need you," she mumbles against his mouth, slipping her tongue between their connected lips.

She tastes like Cognac and the taste gives Fitz reason to pause. He remember her state of mind. He wants her — he _needs_ her. But not like this. Not when she's more than likely too drunk to remember.

It takes everything in him, but Fitz manages to push her away. He holds her at arm's length. Their eyes meet and something akin to anger and lust swirls in Olivia's glassy eyes. For the second time tonight, he realizes she's crying. When he'd first spotted her back at Old Joe's earlier, crawling on her hands and knees off stage, she'd been crying.

"Olivia, not like this."

"No, it's okay, it's okay. I know you want me. I want you, too. Please…" Olivia smiles, trying to slide past Fitz's arms, but his grip tightens (not enough to hurt her) against her upper arms.

She's right, he wants her. Badly. But he just can't. Not under these circumstances.

 _Not like this_.

"No. Not like this."

"Then how? On my knees? My stomach? How?"

He bites his lip at the visuals she draws. "Not at all, Olivia. You're drunk."

In an instant, she pulls away, out of Fitz's hold. "No, I'm not."

"You are, Olivia. You're literally swaying on your feet."

"Go to hell," Olivia shouts, lunging at him. She shoves at his chest, but he doesn't budge. She shoves again, but he still doesn't move. He can see the fury and anger rising in her as she steps back.

"Let me help you into bed, Liv. Get you steady before you throw up."

"Only if you're going to fuck me." Tears drip down her cheeks.

"Olivia."

"Suddenly don't want any part of the nigger girl, huh? I'm not of any interest to you? You chase me around, tell my family my business and now you're too good for me?"

"Don't," Fitz warns, his voice low. He knows she's angry – hurt beneath it all – but he won't stand her calling his character into question like this again.

"No. Why don't you want me now?" Olivia pushes. "Why?"

"You're drunk."

No sooner do the words leave his lips that Olivia slaps him. There isn't nearly enough force behind her slap to do much damage, though his cheek stings slightly. His eyes meet Olivia's again and she steels her jaw, swaying in place slightly.

"If hitting me makes you feel better, Olivia, go ahead and hit me, but I'm not sleeping with you."

A beat passes and she raises her hand again, poised to strike. Fitz welcomes her fury, but it never lands. Instead she stumbles past him, bumping into the doorway as she disappears down the hall. He listens as she makes it to the bathroom, hears as she throws up hopefully in the toilet.

He gives her a minute before he makes his way to the bathroom, finding her on her knees in front of the porcelain bowl. Underneath the bright light of the washroom he spots a few more bruises on her arm, one on her shoulder, and finger print sized marks on her inner thigh. He might just kill Russell before he has the chance to hand him over to Howard and the US Army.

She heaves into the bowl a few minutes more before pulling away and laying down on the floor. Fitz frowns, catching a glimpse of bits of vomit stuck to her chin and neck. She looks tiny and pitiful on the floor in her underwear. He remembers the hallway closet from earlier and shuffles over to it, opening the door and grabbing a towel. He steps back into the bathroom and turns the sink on. Keeping the water lukewarm, he wets the corner and bends down, careful not to land on Olivia. He wipes the corners of her mouth, his touch laced with concern and care, before moving to her chin.

Tears slip down her cheeks once more as she pushes herself up onto her hands.

"When we kissed this morning...your lips and hands were so soft," Olivia whispers, her head tipping to the side slightly. "You touched me with so, so, so much care."

Fitz continues to wipe at her neck, listening intently. "Like you respected my body. I just felt loved. It felt nice. I just want to feel that again, Fitz. Please." Olivia opens her eyes. They're bloodshot, beat red and Fitz's heart breaks.

"We don't have to have sex for me to take care of you. Are you done throwing up, or is there more in there?"

Olivia takes a deep breath in, her eyes slipping shut briefly before she tilts her head in the opposite direction. "I'm sorry."

He sighs, a soft smile on his lips as he throws the towel over his shoulder, and slides an arm around her waist, hoisting her to her feet. "Let me take care of you."

Olivia nods and he leads her back to the bedroom, sitting her on the bed.

"What do you need?" Fitz asks softly, bending down in front of her and holding onto her hands.

"A t-shirt from my drawer," she whispers, pointing to the ornate, oak dresser in front of the bed.

He nods, turning on his heels.

"Top drawer."

He opens the drawer and sifts through lace bras and silk panties before finding a stack of t-shirts. He pulls out the first shirt and turns to find Olivia topless, one arm folded across her chest.

God is testing his will tonight. Fitz clears his throat and ducks his head low as he holds out the t-shirt for her to take. She does and seconds later he finds her curled on her side, eyes closed. She looks so tiny, so small and vulnerable with her hands tucked beneath her chin.

"I'm going to go get you a glass of water. Do you have any aspirin?" He asks.

"Hold me," Olivia requests. "Please."

It's a simple request, a seemingly chaste one, he knows he should deny but can't. Before he knows what he's doing, he's toeing off his shoes and sliding into bed behind her. He wraps an arm around her waist and she scoots back.

"Tighter," she whispers.

Fitz complies, kissing the back of her head and pulling her closer. He doesn't know what it is about the woman ten years his junior and miles away from any other woman he's ever been interested in, but only two days in and she has his heart in her hand.

/

Fitz notices two things as he wakes some hours later. One: somewhere in the night, Olivia's turned on her side and is wrapped around him; two: they're not alone.

In a chair next to the bed Russell sits, a pistol in one hand, the cognac from the kitchen in the other.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** This update is for a little twitter birdie by the name of Kay/Ana_Elle971 who posted an excerpt on her twitter and suddenly everybody decided to read this. She hoped for a quick update and I hope this suffices.

Thank you everyone for the influx of reviews. I love them, especially the ones that comment on the issues embedded into the piece. I chose this time period because I studied in Vietnam during undergrad and had family who served there.

For those wondering, Russell is Russell from s4 of Scandal.

And to the guest who asked if I had a timetable for updates: I do not. I'm currently prepping to move from the east coast to the west coast, so my schedule is a bit hectic. I write when I'm able. I do try to update something at _least_ once a month; health issues sidelined me for a while there, but I'm doing better.

Enough of me, though, let's get on with it. This chapter is a bit shorter than the others because I had a definite ending and beginning in mind that'll lead us to the next arc of the story.

Hope you enjoy and I'll never have an A/N this long again.

Beware of violence ahead.

* * *

Fitz swallows hard, his body immediately going rigid as he takes in the man sitting in front of him. He has to blink his eyes a few times, to assure himself that he's really seeing Russell or if it's just his imagination getting the better of him. There isn't a clock within eyeshot for him to guess how long he's been asleep, but it's more than plausible he's in a sleep (or rather lack thereof) induced hallucination.

"You ain't dreaming, white boy," Russell hisses, as if he can hear Fitz's thoughts. He lifts the cognac to his lips and takes a long swig from the bottle. He looks incensed, mad. His eyes are wide, wild; clothes rumpled, and skin sallow. "Comfortable? Anything else I can get you since you've already got my woman?"

Fitz's eyes immediately fall to Olivia. She looks angelic in her tranquil state, a bare leg thrown over his, her chin digging into his chest, oblivious to their perilous situation.

"It ain't enough for you to have all the world at your feet. You've gotta have my world, too?"

Careful not to jostle Olivia awake, Fitz extracts himself from her hold, and sits up. His mind begins to work overtime, taking in his surroundings; the distance between he and Russell. He contemplates the amount of time he thinks he'll need to grab the gun along with what it'll take to disarm the man in front of him. He just needs to distract Russell first.

Fitz clears his throat, "Russell…"

"Don't call my name like you know me. And stop moving." Russell raises the gun, pointing it at Fitz.

Fitz holds his hands up in surrender. "Look, this isn't what you think it is. I promise you I have not touch—"

The sound of the hammer pulling back on the gun silences Fitz.

Russell chuckles lowly, no humor to his tone."You must really think I'm stupid. Just another dumb nigger to you, huh?" He asks, although Fitz assumes the question is rhetorical. "You like the rest of the crackers I'm over there in the jungle with? Always assuming you motherfuckers are the smartest in the room when you can't tell your ass from your elbows 98% of the time."

"I would never—"

"Ha! Who you think you are, a Kennedy?" Russell snears. "Tell me, just between you and me," he nods towards Olivia, "was she everything you wanted from a colored girl? She fulfill your jungle fantasies?"

Disgust and anger propel Fitz to his feet, fists clenched at his side. He takes a step forward, but stops when Russell raises the gun.

"She must've not done it right if you're this upset still."

"Don't be disgusting," Fitz growls.

Russell shrugs, though nothing about him suggests nonchalance. "What? You fuck my fiancé, in my house and I can't even ask you how it was?"

Fitz's eyes narrow, but he refuses to take the bait. Besides, he knows that no matter what he says, Russell isn't listening.

"So you too good to speak to me now?"

A beat passes, but Fitz remains quiet, eyes on the revolver Russell holds in his hand. It looks like a .44 Special, which means five bullets to a chamber. Five chances to die if Russell is a good shot, but he looks sloppy, not necessarily intoxicated, though far from sober.

"I said ARE YOU TOO GOOD TO SPEAK TO ME NOW?"

The sound of shattering glass splinters the air and droplets of cognac and glass rain down over the bed. Fitz manages to cover Olivia's body with his own just as the shards fall.

She yelps loudly, startled awake. "Fitz?"

The lamp next to the bed becomes the next casualty of Russell's anger as the gun goes off. Bits of ceramic ripple into the air and Fitz covers Olivia tighter. Russell's lost what little of his mind he has left.

 _Four bullets left._ Fitz thinks as he hunches over Olivia, finding her ear. "Stay down," he demands, feeling cognac seeps into his grey t-shirt and glass scratches his skin.

"What's happening?"

No sooner do the words get out of her mouth does the bed partially slide off the box spring, sending Fitz and Olivia to the floor, landing on their sides.

"Jesus, son of a bitch," Fitz mumbles, trying to keep his weight off Olivia. She looks tiny, eyes wide with confusion next to him, holding onto his shirt.

"Get up!" Russell barks, kicking the mattress once more. "Both of you; get up!" He rounds the bed, gun raised. The barrel flits between Fitz and Olivia.

"Russell!" Olivia shrieks, the fear in her voice loud in Fitz's ear.

His own heart climbs into throat, the blood thumping loudly in his ears. He can feel Olivia's nails breaking skin. He's scared; far more afraid now, staring down the barrel of a gun in a situation he doesn't even know how he's gotten into, than he's ever been before He's flown planes off a boat in the middle of the sea and this is quite possibly how he will die.

 _Four bullets. Maybe six steps._

"So this your plan then? Murder charges to go with the desertion?" The words fall from his mouth in haste. He grits his jaw. He's never been the type to fly by the seat of his pants but he has no choice. How does one prepare for this situation?

"I said get on up," Russell repeats.

"You never went back in December, you disappeared. And when the planes landed in March for the soldiers actually on leave, you showed back up here," Fitz continues, laying out the knowledge Howard bestowed upon him earlier. "You left your unit a man down to do what? Come here and be a waste of space? Kick around a woman who loves you?"

"Fitz, don't," Olivia warns.

"You don't know shit!" Russell's voice breaks, his hand shaking. "You're out there with Marcus, living life on easy street up there in them damn boats. I'm out there on land, being shot at and gunned down; bombed and gassed. Looking over my shoulder wondering if it's the VC or some redneck with a bone to pick because he was too damn poor or stupid to get out of serving. I come back home to supposed integration and still get treated like shit. Get called everything under the sun, but my name. A nigger — a baby killer. Come home to my baby, the girl I've loved since I was fifteen, suddenly too good for me. Don't want to settle down with me; don't want to talk about having my children."

"That's not true," Olivia yells.

"It's not? Why does everyone think I'm stupid today? I got dumbass written across my forehead? Ever since this honkey showed up a day ago you've been all over him. It's all about music and parading your ass around for whoever'll look. I ain't enough for you anymore?"

"Stop!"

"Nothing happened," Fitz interrupts.

A part of him, a tiny part, feels for Russell. He's heard stories of soldiers returning home to anti-war sentiments. He's yet to face it, but he knows is true. His heart also tugs for a part of what Russell's said that Fitz knows he'll never understand, though he's tried for Marcus and for the rest of the men he commands.

"You've done nothing but hurt me since, since you came back. You push me around and hit me. Grab me and throw things at me." Olivia's voice cracks and Fitz knows she's crying again. "You tried to — you wouldn't stop earlier. You were going to rape me."

What little sympathy Fitz extends towards the mad man in front of him quickly rescinds when Olivia's words hit his ears. He cuts his eyes sideways to find only truth in Olivia's dark irises. She shakes like a leaf against him.

Fitz sees red. Rage over takes his sensibilities and he charges, the gun trained on he and Olivia forgotten.

/

Since she's opened her eyes mere moments ago, she hasn't had the chance to gain her bearings. Her brain pounds against her skull, fear and nausea swirl within her belly. Bits of bile rise up her esophagus. She's painfully sober, the perilous reality of her current present slamming into her like a runaway freight train. Everything simultaneously moves too fast and too slow.

Russell is AWOL; he and Fitz argue; she and Russell argue.

Words leave her lips and the situation explodes. Chaos unfolds. Bodies slam into the ground; back and forth. They roll, they tumble. Fists are exchanged; bone on bone. Anger, rage.

It's almost as if Olivia's out of her body, above it, watching the scene unfold before her in a daze.

 _Do something. Now, Olivia. Do something!_

She tries to force herself back into her body, bring herself back to the now. Since Russell left all those hours ago she's been hiding, trying to bury her pain. The wretched taste of cognac burns her tongue. The shock seeps from her bones and she tries to focus on the heap of limbs slamming into walls and dressers. The vanity mirror that sits on the back of her closet door shatters.

Olivia blinks, one, twice, and the third time's the charm as Russell and Fitz come into view. Fitz is on the ground, Russell over him with his hands around Fitz's neck. Olivia wobbles to her feet, teetering on her toes, stuck in the liminal space between reality and disbelief. Fitz tries to buck Russell off of him, fists flying in the rabid man's direction, but it's to no avail.

 _Do something, Liv!_

She grabs a fistfull of Russell's shirt, trying to yank him backwards, off of Fitz. She only serves to incense the man she hasn't recognised in ages. Russell's anger turns on her as Fitz coughs, turning on his side to regain air.

Russell raises his hand above his head and brings it down, sending Olivia to flailing backwards, jaw stinging. She hits the ground with a thud, landing on her hands and knees. Her hand grazes against something metal. She's dizzy, so damn dizzy, and it takes her a minute before realises what she's landed on.

The gun!

It must've been knocked from Russell's grasp when Fitz lunged at him.

Behind her she can hear Fitz gasping and struggling to catch his breath. Her fingers close around the metal, but before she can grasp it completely, she's yanked backwards, her already thumping head exploding in pain. Russell yanks her to and fro, back against him.

"I told you, you're not leaving me. I'll kill you before I let you leave me." The conviction in his tone causes the hair on the back of Olivia's neck to raise.

 _I'll kill you._

 _I'll kill you._

Russell shoves her forward and she cascades to the ground, landing on her hands and knees. Once more the gun is near her fingertips.

 _I'll kill you._

Her hands shakes and her fingers quiver as she gets ahold of the gun. The pounding in her temples builds. Acid stings her throat. All the summers she spent as a little girl out in her backyard with her father learning how firearms work come to play as she tightens her grasp on the gun. Elijah Pope isn't a subscriber of Dr. King's non-violence philosophies, but a strong believer in armed resistance.

She remembers it all as Russell lunges at her again, taking aim at soda cans, easing her finger on the trigger, and breathing as she shoots. She remembers the broken plates and shattered plaster. The backhands and empty promises. The closed fists and creeping fingers, ghosting higher and higher underneath her skirt. She tries to count the times she's hit the ground and how many of her pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears….

 _I'll kill you before I let you leave me._

The gun jerks in her hand as she squeezes the trigger, the recoiling jarring her slightly. Through bleary eyes, she watches as the bullet pierces Russell's chest. He reels backwards, hitting the ground.

 _What did I do?_

"Give me the gun, Olivia…"

Snot mixed with tears rolls down Olivia's chin as she searches for the voice she hears above the ringing in her ears.

Fitz.

"The gun, Livvie…." Fitz repeats.

The gun? _The gun._ Cautiously, she feels a hand wrap around hers that still hold onto the gun. Together they lower the gun to the ground. In the distance she hears sirens and finally she lets it go.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Sooo, sorry I'm so slow in updating things, but finding time to write has proven to be slightly impossible with an impending cross country move.

Hoping to get some other things updated sometime this month, too.

Thanks for sticking around.

-M

* * *

The bright white overhead light of the interrogation room is blinding. Fitz has to squint to keep a slow building headache at bay. Worry and fear courses through his vein. He isn't afraid of the detectives line of questioning, he's afraid of Olivia being alone a room away; afraid of what she might say. The last he saw of her before he'd been handcuffed and placed in the back of the police cruiser she'd been catatonic, shock reverberating off her tiny body. He hopes she stays that way for the moment, quiet and unresponsive to all questions. The kill is self-defense, but the law is unkind.

"Mr. Grant. Or should I say Officer Grant?" A stout balding, white man Fitz assumes is a detective asks. He stands in the doorway, pudgy fingers of one hand on the brass knob, a manila folder in the other hand. "You're a long way away from California. Bit of a ways from Norfolk, too."

Fitz nods in response.

"I'm Detective Ben House and I feel like we can get this squared away tonight." Detective House lets the metal door fall closed behind him. He pulls out the chair in front of Fitz and sits. He tosses the folder onto the small metal table.

Up close Fitz can see white whiskers jutting out from Detective House's chin, his skin is a bit sallow and wrinkled, and his eyes are a dull gray.

"The way I see it," House starts, leaning forward on his elbows. He opens the folder and a photo of Russell — a mugshot — stares up at Fitz. "Russell James Robinson, age twenty-three, D.C Native, AWOL from the U.S Army, had that shot coming."

Fitz doesn't respond to the detective's assertion; his expression remains blanks. He doesn't know where House is going with this yet, even if the older man's words are true, although Fitz doubts they share the same reasoning.

"You and Ms." He pauses to flip a page in the file. "Ms. Pope were probably engaged in some kind of transaction, I'm guessing. Which is fine and understandable. We all like to color outside the lines every now and then; get a thrill while away from home."

Fitz's brows knit together and his eyes narrow. He tries to piece together what Detective House is alluding to, but his thoughts are jumbled by the mention of Olivia's name.

"She's very pretty for a colored girl, but son you have to be careful with these nig-negro girls and their pimps. I have a feeling they were trying to set you up, son. You're lucky you made it out."

Anger blooms in Fitz's stomach; heat bursts in his chest. "She's not a prostitute. I was not soliciting her," he hisses.

Detective House chuckles. "There's no reason to be embarrassed son. I've done it before. We've all been curious about colored girls. It's fine. That apartment building is a hotbed for whores."

Fitz's fists clench at his sides. "Her name is Olivia Pope. She is the cousin of one of my shipmates. I walked her home after she'd had too much to drink a few blocks over at an establishment called 'Old Joe's.' Russell was her boyfriend. He misinterpreted mine and Miss Pope's relationship when he returned to their apartment and attacked us. I was unaware that he had a weapon until he discharged it, hitting a lamp in Miss Pope's bedroom. We struggled for the weapon, I must've knocked it out of his grasp at one point. He had his hands around my throat, I managed to push him away and that's when I saw the gun on the ground. Both Russell and I lunged for it, I got to it first and discharged the weapon." He chooses each word with precision, all but omitting Olivia's presence.

Detective House leans back in his seat, the metal chair scrapes lightly across the ground. He stares at Fitz with an eyebrow raised, as if he's taking in all the young man in front of him has to say, before clearing his throat. "Her fingerprints were on the on the revolver."

The image of Olivia, hands shaking as she lowered the gun and large tears rolling down her high cheeks, flashes across his mind. He'd taken the gun from her just moments after the shot had rang out; in all truth, she'd probably saved his life. Russell had caught him off guard with a knee to the lung, and promptly followed it with two thumbs to his larynx. "Like I said, she was his girlfriend. She's probably moved the gun at one point or another."

"Or maybe she'd aimed it at you…"

Fitz chuckles at the man grasping at straws a little too tightly for Fitz's liking. "I think I'd remember that."

"I think you're a bit blind to what's in front of you, kid. She found her mark in you and probably set you up to be killed."

"You have a wild imagination, Detective." Fitz tells House. "Would I be worried about a woman who wanted to kill me?"

House shrugs. "I've seen men who are enamored with jezebels do crazy things in this line of work time and time before."

Once more Fitz clenches his fists. Whore now Jezebel; House is pushing it. "Where is Miss Pope? Is she okay?"

"She's _just_ fine." House answers, tone clipped.

Something in the way the other man answers Fitz's question leaves him unsettled. "Where is she?"

"Somewhere around here."

"Do I get a phone call or should I have a holding cell; how's this go?" Fitz asks, agitation in his voice.

"Look, son—"

Fitz's jaw tightens at the man's use of son, again. House's patronizing tone and willingness to indict guilt in Olivia's unsettling. He doesn't like this and doesn't know what he can do to prevent a witch hunt.

"My name's Fitz."

House gives Fitz a somber smile, leaning forward on his elbows. "Fitz, son; between you and me, once I hand the facts over to the ADA, I'm sure this'll all be chalked up to Justifiable Homicide. Hell, I'm pretty sure we'll be letting you go soon. Don't leave town or nothing like that, but we're given you the benefit of the doubt here. We both know how these people are. I don't see why, once the facts are laid out for the prosecutor, he'd even try and put this in front of a jury."

Fitz feels sick; House is a good ole' boy. It's clear as day why he's letting Fitz off with a slight slap on the wrist. Fitz thinks of the moments leading up to his confrontation with the dead man; the inequality Russell cried about. Then there's Olivia. Her skepticism. It's all suddenly so clear to Fitz.

He lets his eyes drop to the table. For the first time he feels his throat burning, his eyes itching. "Is there a way I can get a glass of water?"

/

Olivia's knees shake as she sits on a steel bench in a cold cell. Bright red blood sticks to her white t-shirt and she gnaws on the inside of her cheek, tears rolling down her cheeks. She's in shock; trying, and failing, to replay the night's events over in her head. She remembers the argument with Russell and after that it all goes blank until she's sitting over Russell, blood pouring between her fingers. She barely recalls being booked.

"You doing okay, sweetheart?" A voice calls out to her.

Olivia looks up to see a woman with light, buttery brown skin dressed in a short skirt, fishnet stockings, a halter top, and long trench coat on with a large afro staring at her.

"You look like hell," she tells Olivia, her painted red nails skimming over the fingerprint bruises on Olivia's left thigh.

The touch causes Olivia to jump, terror in her round eyes.

"Shit, he really did a number on you didn't he? Where were you working?"

"Wha — what?" Olivia flinches, wiping at her eyes, pain exploding in her face.

"God damn it. They didn't even let you put pants on. He beat the hell out of you and they bring you in here…" the woman huffs. She takes off her coat and slips it around Olivia's shoulders. "Jesus, you're a baby."

Olivia's sniffs, bottom lip quivering. "I don't know what happened. I don't remember…" She looks up at the kind stranger, unable to stop the tears.

"Call me Coffee, baby doll. How long have you been on the streets?" Coffee rubs Olivia's back in small, comforting circles.

"I'm not. My-my-my boy…" sputters Olivia, uncertain of what she's even trying to say and of what's happening. Her head is foggy and details are scarce.

Coffee gives her a look of sympathy. "Don't even say any more. I - I think I get it. Piece of shit pigs couldn't even let you clean up. Your man's probably in a cell somewhere else. They'll probably let you go in the morning or something. Shrug their shoulders at him kicking the shit out of you like they all do."

"I told you, Marla, you keep going back to him and we can't do anything about it. You won't press charges…"

Olivia turns as she hears another voice. One the opposite side of the bars, she sees a tall woman with the same shade of deep brown skin as hers. She's wearing a boxy suit and her hair is short straight. There's a badged clipped to her left hip. She carries a paper cup in hand and grey sweat pants in the other.

"I press charges, he ends up back on the street in two months instead of a week; this time he kills me. Wash, rinse, repeat," Coffee shoots back. She brushes a strand of hair away from Olivia's cheek, softly rubbing a thumb over the swollen cheekbone. "Any news on that sick motherfucker kidnapping and dumping little girls on highways, Nina?"

"Not yet, but I'm not letting up. We've got the feds coming in. With all the anti-war shit going on it's been a nightmare," Nina replies. She sighs heavily, leaning against the bars.

"You know if it was little white girls being snatched, the world would've already been stopped. Troopers on the highway. The whole nine-yards."

"I know."

Olivia wipes at her eyes again, sniffling as she listens to the conversation going back and forth, she briefly remembers seeing something on the news about missing Black girls in the area and the whispers of a possible serial killer.

"Miss Pope, I'm Detective Jenkins. I brought you an unfortunate cup of coffee and some sweatpants. I'm sorry my colleagues didn't have enough decency to let you get dressed. Unfortunately, all I have are these pants. You look a few pounds lighter than me, but they should fit you. Might be a bit better to wear than Marla's coat. Who knows what she's done in that." She holds the pants out to Olivia through the bars.

"Bitch," Coffee shoots, though there's a smile on her lips.

Nina laughs.

Olivia looks up at the detective, slightly at ease. She accepts the pants, and slides them on, looking down at her bare feet.

"She's just a baby, Nina. Look at her," Coffee says, folding her coat in her lap. "Put this piece of shit job to use and let her go."

"Hey, this piece of shit job's gotten you out of trouble too many times to count. Miss Pope, please follow me."

Olivia nods, but finds it hard to move her legs. She's unsteady, nauseous. Her head pounds against her temples and she remembers drinking — a lot. It takes her a moment, but eventually she ends up across a small metal table from Detective Jenkins.

The paper cup now full of lukewarm coffee sits between her palms, but she doesn't sip from it.

"Miss Pope, are you of any relation to Elijah Pope, PG County Civil Rights attorney?"

"He's my father," Olivia answers.

"I knew you looked familiar. I'm a PG County girl myself. Laurel. Your daddy did some work for us when the clan came to town in 67' and tried to burn down that church. While the Pastor tried to keep everyone calm, your daddy walked around with a gun on his hip. He offered to teach some of the local boys how to shoot, too."

Olivia nods, knowing exactly what the Detective is talking about. She remembers the summer of 67' all too well. She'd driven up from her home in Hyattsville to Laurel with her father to aid the small community of Grove, in taking legal action against the Klan the summer before she'd started Howard. It was that summer that a white man had spit on her at a gas station and the very Pastor Detective Jenkins spoke about now prevented Eli Pope from putting a bullet between the man's eyes.

"I think it's safe to say you're not a working girl…"

Olivia shakes her head.

"Do you remember anything from tonight? When my partner brought you in, you were hysterical."

Once more Olivia shakes her head.

"What about the man you were with?"

The man? Russell? Is he…

"The white man, Olivia. Do you remember…"

 _Fitz. The gun. Russell._

 _Give me the gun, Olivia…._

Olivia's eyes fill with tears. Her breathing grows steep and her stomach knots. Panic overtakes her and she starts to shake again. She feels dizzy.

"I. He. I… We. He." Her words come out in spurts, breaking apart on her tongue. Each time she gets close to remembering, her brain sputters out. Her mind goes blank. "Fit...Is..Russ…"

Detective Jenkins is at Olivia's side in seconds, a warm hand on Olivia's shoulder. The older woman tries her hardest to calm Olivia, encouraging her to breathe, and rubbing her back gently.

"Hey, hey now, you've got to calm down, Miss Pope. Please. Do you want me to call your father? I'm going to call your father, okay? I'm going to call him."

Olivia doesn't respond; she simply can't. Her mind's too distracted by the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she's done something terrible.

/

Morning breaks and Fitz wakes to the sound of yelling; he hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep. He's cuffed to Detective House's desk in the middle of the station. A cup of cold coffee sits in from of him. Fitz's back cracks as he sits up straight in the wooden chair, he cranes his neck at the sound of the voice.

He looks up to see an older black man, his features somewhat familiar, storming through the station.

"Where is my daughter? I demand to see her now! What are her charges? What is she being held on? Olivia. Olivia!"

"Excuse me, sir. Sir," House calls out as he pushes away from the coffee pot tucked back off to the corner of the room. "You can't just storm in here and demand…."

The door that leads to the holding cells opens and Fitz watches as a frizzy haired and frightened Olivia, dressed partially in blood soaked clothes and shoeless, emerges; closely following her is a tall, older black woman. A badge hangs off the woman's hip and she points Olivia in direction of the man Fitz is certain is Olivia's father.

"Olivia!"

"Dad!"

The two embrace and Fitz finds himself breathing a slight sigh of relief. Just seeing she's in one piece sends a bit of air rushing back into his lungs.

* * *

 ***** Detective Jenkins is actually based off a real life Detective. She was one of the first Black female detectives in the DCPD. The suspected serial killer mentioned is the Phantom Highway Killer, a DMV serial killer never caught who ran rampant during this time period. The real Detective Jenkins was one of the detectives on the case back in 1971.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Hey y'all, thanks for sticking around and in here for my slow updates. Still adjusting to west coast life (spoiler alert: I hate it), though I did take a break to go see American Son. Kerry did the damn thing, without question. Though I had a lot of questions about the script and a few complaints about her stage partner, but I s'pose after watching her share the stage with Tony for six years, no one compares. Ha.

Any who, here's your update. And Happy Thanksgiving. This is my second without my mom so I'll be spending it doing homeless outreach. I hope you enjoy the time with your families and my semester is almost up so I'll be able to do some real writing.

This chapter is a bit short (again, i'm doing it in between course work), but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

-M

* * *

The sobs that escape her throat are foreign to her ears. She knows this is her voice breaking from her chest, bursting from her lips, but she sounds like an animal. A wounded animal. But that's what she is, isn't she? Barefoot and wild eyed like a deer stuck in headlights.

"Its okay, Livia," her father soothes. He rubs circles on her back and she winces as he dances over a bruise she can't pinpoint getting. "We're going to get you out of here."

Olivia nods, her chin digging into Eli Pope's chest. She's always been a daddy's girl, even before her mother's untimely passing. The only thing that the Pope women shared that the Pope patriarch couldn't hold the candle to is music. Olivia's love of song stemmed from her mother's church choir upbringing.

"What are the charges? What's my daughter being held on?" Eli's muffled voice sounds above the bear grip he has her wrapped in.

As soon as the question hits Olivia's ears, she tenses up. She tries to pull away from Eli, but his grip only tightens.

"Dad, daddy," she tries to speak, but the words don't fit together on her tongue. Every time she tries to recall what's happened in the last forty-eight hours, her brain or mouth promptly shutdown. It's almost as if her mind can't comprehend the horror of whatever's happened.

"Hush now, baby girl. I'm going to fix this. What are her charges?"

"There aren't any; take her to the hospital, Eli. " Detective Jenkin's voice sounds above Eli's hold.

"Now wait a damn minute, Jenkins, you don't have the authority to make that jump. She's being held as a murder suspect. Chapman, take her back to the holding cell until the transport van can get here for county."

"Chief, you have your murder confession sitting right here. He's completely exonerated Miss Pope, and keeping her here is ridiculous."

Murder suspect. Confession.

"Murder of who?" Eli asks.

"Russell Robinson." Detective House replies.

"Russell?"

Olivia's heart falls to her feet, the unmistakable POP! of a gun rings in her ears.

 _Give me the gun, Olivia._

The gun. Oh God. The gun.

Did she? She did…. Didn't she?

Her eyes clamp shut and she tries her hardest to go back to that moment, but can't; it's all blank. Everything's blank except...

"Fitz. Daddy, Fitz!" Olivia wedges her arms in between she and Eli, pushing away from him. Her dark eyes scan the room and she finds Fitz, handcuffed to a wooden desk. His bottom lip is split, swollen; there's a purplish bruise underneath his right eye and thumbprints on his neck.

"Fitz?" Eli repeats, dark brows raised high.

Olivia pulls out of her father's grasp completely and crosses the room as fast as she can, as fast as her feet will carry her.

Relief rests in his slate eyes as they lock gazes and he gives her a soft, lopsided smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

She takes a few more steps in his direction, needing to feel him beneath her fingers, but is stopped when Detective Jenkins steps in her path.

Nina's hand juts out and she shakes her head. She lowers her voice, and locks eyes with Olivia. "Go home, Olivia. I've given you an out; take it."

"Fitz…" Olivia repeats.

"Damn it, Nina, I said she's not going anywhere!" Detective House huffs, fist slamming against the desk he stands at. "That little whore is going back to her cell!"

"What did you just call my daughter?" Eli asks, closing in on House.

Everything happens in a blur. Jenkins steps away, her long legs carrying in the direction of Eli Pope and Detective House. She plants her hands on Eli's chest and Olivia rushes for Fitz who's also jumped to his feet.

"She's not a whore you son of a bitch!" Fitz yells and pulls on the cuffs.

The precinct is a blur of chaos and yelling. Eli doesn't relent, neither does House as each man exchange verbal jabs and racial charged insults.

Olivia tries to pay them no mind as she steps in front of Fitz, eyes pleading with him."I did...I think I did it. I did, didn't I?" she asks him. She reaches up a shaky thumb and runs it along his swollen lip. "I can't remember, I don't remember," she confesses.

Although she can't remember, she knows one thing: this is her fault, without her he wouldn't be in this trouble.

"Shh, just shush. It's good you can't remember. You hear me? It's good. And if you do, don't say a damn word to anyone, Livvie. Don't. Go home with your father. _Now._ Go. I'll be fine." His free hand finds the fingers that probe his face and he squeezes them tightly in his. His voice is gruff, low, barely above a whisper.

"But what if-"

" _No. Go home._ "

A uniformed officer grabs Olivia's right arm, yanking her away. She trips over her feet and stumbles to the ground, catching herself with open palms. The moment she feels the floor beneath her fingers, her mind sinks back to last night. She remembers feeling for the gun, she remembers grabbing it. She…

"Get your hands off of her!"

It's her dad's voice again, cutting through the fog. Olivia looks up to find the Pope patriarch pushing between desks, heading in her direction. Detective Jenkins is hot on his heels. The chaos in the room heightens as Eli hoists her to her toes.

"I want answers! I want whoever put their hands on my daughter now. I want…"

"Counselor!" Detective Jenkins shouts, her voice sounding above the fray. "Take your daughter home. She's shell shocked and needs you. She needs to be back tomorrow to answer some questions for the ADA, but for now, take your daughter home."

Olivia looks from her father to Detective Jenkins. Eli's brow is hard set, his expression full of fire. He looks poised to kill and Olivia knows her father has it in him to do just that.

"Eli, take her home." Detective Jenkins implores, her features softening. "Take your baby home."

Eli's expression softens, he looks over at Olivia whose eyes fill once more with tears. He wraps an arm around Olivia's shoulders and tugs her close, pressing a kiss to her frizzy hair. "Come on baby."

Olivia looks back at Fitz, eyes wide with worry. He mouths 'GO' and tugs his head in the direction of the exit, but she doesn't want to. She can't bear the thought of leaving him like this.

"Olivia, let's go."

"Go, Olivia. Now." Fitz shouts.

Across the room, a flustered and red faced Detective House snatches Fitz's handcuffed wrists and yanks him away from the desk.

"Dad…"

"Go!" Fitz yells again and finally her feet move.

/

Every time she closes her eyes, the scene unfolds the same. She remembers falling asleep in Fitz's hold and waking to the sound of gunshots. She remembers arguing with Russell; him hitting her so hard she flies backwards and hits the floor; the room turns and her ears ring. Fitz fights with Russell; the gun appears, it feels heavy in her hand and then… the scene stops. There's nothing to fill in the blanks as she draws her knees to her chest.

"Livia, I can't defend you if you don't tell me what happened. Who did this to you?" Eli Pope asks. His voice is tight, high, like a man running on empty well into the night.

Olivia stays silent, chewing on her bottom lips, a blank stare on her face.

"Eli, if you would leave her alone for two minutes and let her pull herself together, she might be able to tell you," Thea, Eli's sister, tells him.

He sighs, reaching out a thumb that brushes over the bruises on Olivia's wrist. Olivia flinches, winces and lets her hands drop to the bedspread beneath her body. They've been back at Thea's for about an hour now and aside from trying to piece last night together, she can only think of Fitz. She wonders if he's okay behind the bars she's the reason he's trapped in.

"Ma! Mama! Have you heard from Olivia? Harrison said…" Marcus's voice enters the room before he does and Olivia's eyes meet his. She shakes her head at him, but he bypasses his uncle and mother, making a beeline for the bed.

"Olivia, did Russell? He did this, didn't he? I told you. I told you! Harrison!"

"Russell? Why would Russell...he's. What's going on here!" Eli shouts.

The volume of her father's voice causes Olivia to flinch. She shuts her eyes so hard that she sees spots on the inside of her eyelids. Her head thumps against her skull and she feels like she's going to throw up. The tears start up and she can't seem to find a way to stop them. She turns onto her side, and curls into a ball, unable to block out her family's voices.

"Olivia Carolyn Pope, I'm going to ask you one time and you're going to answer me." Eli says, voice low, threatening.

"That's it! Out. Now!" Thea shouts. "Marcus, Elijah, OUT!"

"Althea Pope-Walker, this is _my_ daughter. You will not...I need to know who hurt her!" Eli's voice cracks.

"And you won't find that out if you yell at her, now I said out. Let me talk to my niece!"

"Althea, Olivia is -"

The Pope siblings stand toe to toe. Thea squares her shoulders and Eli narrows his dark eyes, tears hang in their corners.

"Thea, that's my baby…" he chokes out, "and someone hurt her."

"You know I love Olivia as if she were my own. Let me talk to her."

The door falls closed with a soft thud as Marcus and Eli do as they're told and leave. The room is silent as Olivia weeps into the bedspread, but soon the silence is disturbed as the bed creaks, bowing beneath Althea Pope-Walker's weight.

Althea wraps her arms around Olivia's waist and hugs her close. The touch is too intimate, too familiar, and causes Olivia to cry more, reminding her of the mother she wishes was still here to calm her fears and quell her tears.

"The man I was with before I met your Uncle used to hit me," Althea whispers, her lips brush against Olivia's cheekbone. With each syllable, Olivia feels her chest crack open a little wider than the last. "He knocked me upside the head so hard once that not only did I see stars, but I still can't see right out of my left eye…" she continues. "And I never told a soul...not even your daddy because I thought it was my fault. I thought if I could just take it a little longer he'd work himself out…."

Olivia rocks against her aunt.

"But I wasn't hiding it as well as I thought I was. Your daddy figured it out. And he knows that you do what you have to do, Olive Oil. You have to let us in, though, so we can fix this."

She doesn't answer her aunt, she just cries.

/

"Time for your call, Grant."

Fitz opens his eyes to find the tall, short haired black female detective on the other side of the bars. She looks at him with a quirked brow, but he's happy to see her. She has information on Olivia. Or might.

"You're that officer from earlier."

"I'm a detective, Officer Grant. Detective Jenkins."

"My apologies, Detective. Do you know if Olivia Pope and her father got home safely?" Fitz jumps straight to the point. "She's innocent, she didn't have anything to do with what happened. I did. I don't know how many more time I have to confess, but I'll keep screaming it from the top of my lungs until someone listens. There isn't any reason she needs to come back here. She's innocent." He'll say it as many times as need be because as far as he's concerned, she is. If it hadn't been for her sharp shooting, they'd both be dead.

"We both know that's not the truth, Mr. Grant." Detective Jenkins speaks, speaks as she leans against the bars and lowers her voice.

Her revelation doesn't shock Fitz. He'd seen in earlier in the lobby; Detective Jenkins is a woman far more perceptive of the men she unfortunately works alongside. While House guessed wrongly at the truth, something tells Fitz that Detective Jenkins _knows._ "It's the truth that'll save her, though, and we both know I'll fight this easier than she ever will."

Jenkins nods and shakes her head. "And why's she worth saving to you?"

Because she's someone he can see himself falling in love with. "Because she's someone and she's worth saving."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Hiiiii. No I've not given up on y'all. I went straight from my first year of grad school right to a pretty fancy (& hella important) but tiresome internship on the opposite side of the country (again) that's super worth it. I'm only in my third week, though, so I'm still finding my spare time when I can. You think it'd be on my train ride every morning, but nope.

Anyways, inspo for this story struck me today. I'm currently in the DMV area for my internship and the women on the train with me this morning were discussing the cold case I briefly mentioned a couple of chapters ago.

Please forgive typos, etc. I'm excited to post and doing this at 1:30am before I forget.

Please be aware that the following chapter delves into DV and SA (no scenes, just discussing it). Hopefully more updates are ahead!

Thanks for sticking around if you're still here.

* * *

Dawn slips in through the slotted shades of her aunt's bedroom..

Olivia stirs to a set of soft hands pushing back frizzy strands of hair from her line of sight. She flinches before she realizes that it's her aunt tracing a bruise. Olivia pulls away from the roaming fingers and sits up. She pulls her knees to her chest and hugs them tightly. Her dark eyes study her aunt's face, a face achingly similar to her fathers; the high cheek bones the cupid's bow, and tall forehead. Minus a few tweaks of her mother's DNA, the face staring at Olivia, is for all purposes, hers. There's dark circles around her aunt's eyes let Olivia know that she hasn't slept.

Althea frowns at her niece's reaction and adjusts on the edge of the bed. "I made some breakfast, Bug."

Bug . . . Aunt Thea is the only person who could get away with calling her Bug, a dreaded childhood nickname.

"Oh." Last night is a brick in her head. "I'm…I'm not hungry." Her stomach trembles. Her eyes drop down to the bedspread and she traces the paisley purples with her eyes. "My friend…Marcus's friend. Is he, is he still in…"

"Mr. Fitzgerald is down at the jailhouse. Livvie, I know you don't want to…you don't want to tell me about what happened, but we need to talk about it, baby."

Olivia's eyes lift up from the bedspread, glance briefly at her aunt's face before trailing to the window. "I don't want to talk about it, Aunt Thea…"

Thea reaches out a hand; her thumb grazes over Olivia's swollen cheek, the bruise she'd been hiding the last two days is on full display. "Baby, Marcus is up in arms over his friend and you and your daddy is downstairs out of his mind and I…seeing you like this, baby, what happened?"

Shame swirls in Olivia's stomach and tears slip down her cheeks.

"Baby, Harrison told me about what happened at Joe's, with Russell. He hit you. It wasn't the first time, either. That time you came here with that wrist brace on, Livia…Russell did that, too. Didn't he? You didn't fall. How many more mistakes have you had, baby…"

She remembers having a variant of this conversation days ago, with Fitz. Poor Fitz. She has to find a way to get him out.

"Baby…" Thea prompts once more. "I know this hurts, I know it does. I've been right where you are right now, Bug. Right here." Thea crawls up the bed until her back is against the headboard and her shoulders touch Olivia's. "I was nineteen, in love. Jonathan Campbell. He and your daddy were in the same unit in WWII. It was 1946 and no one really talked about if it was okay for a man to knock his woman's teeth in…Not that we talk about it much now, either…"

Olivia startles, whipping her head around to look at her aunt. She remembers Thea saying something of this sort last night, before she'd cried herself to sleep, but this…

"Johnny never knocked my teeth out, but he came close. And I didn't think I had a soul to tell. Daddy never put his hands on mama and the one time your dad pulled my hair, he knocked Eli into the next day…" Thea's eyes close and she leans her head back. "But I always made excuses for Johnny. He was tired. They wouldn't give him his G.I bill and I just kept getting in his way. Even when I wasn't in his way, I was in his way."

A sharp pain stabs at Olivia's stomach. Tears pour past her closed eyelids and she doesn't need to know anymore because she knows. She knows too well. Her throat tightens and she nods. The pain in her chest burns and her heart is on fire. She doesn't like where this story is going and doesn't like that it is all too familiar.

"The last time he hit me I was cooking dinner. I think. I can't remember. Your grandpa didn't like me out with Johnny and no ring on my finger, but he didn't mind if I went over to cook Johnny a good meal. Your daddy always checked in on us after coming home from courtin' your mama; God rest her soul." Thea opens her eyes and sighs. "I think he'd just proposed to Maya, matter of fact. I remember because even though Johnny was putting me through hell, I still couldn't wait to be Mrs. Campbell. That's really all most women were expected to do. We didn't have a lot of the options you girls are finding yourselves with today…"

Maya Pope pops into Olivia's thoughts. Snot drips from her nose and Olivia wonders if her mom would be disappointed in her, in who she's become and what she's let happen to her. Maya always wanted the best for her daughter and always made sure she had the best. From music and dance lessons to voice lessons, language lessons, family vacations abroad and her time at Howard.

"I don't remember what I did exactly, but I remember he split my lip and…he hit me so hard that I fell out. I think I'd asked him if he'd heard about his GI benefits or…I don't know. But he knocked me out. And when I came to, he was livid. He almost killed me and he hurt me in a way…in a way that no one should ever have to worry about. He took something from me that I would've willingly given to him. I'd planned on giving him once I was Mrs. Campbell…"

That night in the kitchen races through Olivia's mind and her eyes open wide with recognition. "Aunt Thea…" Olivia reaches over and grabs her aunt's hand. She grasps it tight, her grip desperate with the need to heal old wounds. Her eyes overflow with tears.

"Hey, hey now…" Thea sniffles, shakes her head and gives Olivia a watery smile. "I'm not telling you this for you to worry about me. I'm telling you this because I know, baby. I _know._ I know and there's nothing you can say to me that will make me think differently of you. Not one thing about what happened last night or every night since that man's been home is on you, Olivia Carolyn Pope. Not one thing. Not one raise of his hand or…"

Olivia cuts Althea off as she rushes into her aunt's arms, partially sitting in the older woman's lap. She clings to Thea, crying until her eyes run dry, until snot saturates her aunt's blouse, and her eyes burn. Thea rocks Olivia, hands running down her niece's back. Eventually seconds turn to minutes and minutes to an hour as neither tries to move out of the other's embrace.

Only when her spine begins to ache from the position she's twisted herself into, does Olivia move. She pulls back, forcing herself to lift her chin and look into her aunt's eyes. Tears drip down Thea's cheeks, causing Olivia's bottom lip to quiver.

"Russell didn't…he didn't do _that_ to me. He tried, but he stopped. I don't know why, but he did. But…but he." Olivia fights to keep her eyes up. "When he came home, he came back _different._ He'd never hit me before, ever. We've been together since we were kids and never. I…I don't know what happened, but then I found out he was using that stuff and when I asked him about it he just, he hit me. And it was like Pandora's Box from there. I was always in his way. I never said the right thing or did it. But then there'd be moments where he'd go back to being my Russell and daddy always says that love allows for forgiveness and –"

"No, Olivia, look at me. Look at me and hear me when I say this." Thea's voice takes a hard edge that scares Olivia. "If you don't hear anything else I say, hear this. Love is not and will never be someone hurting you because they feel like they can. Ain't enough forgiveness in the world for that. Love allows you to forgive things like forgotten birthdays, missed anniversaries, and unspoken words. Love doesn't forgive a fist to your face. And it never will. Do you hear me?"

"I do, but Aunt—"

"But nothing. Nothing at all…"

"I just wanted to save him. I just wanted to…I thought I could, but he was going to kill me. He…" Once more Olivia tries hard to remember what'd happened, but her brain pauses. It blanks as she feels her fingers wrap around the steel of the gun and only picks back up once she's shaking, hovering over Russell as she tries to stop the blood. Russell's chest heaves, blood drips from the corners of his mouth, and then he stills.

"When I didn't come home that night, your daddy came looking for me. And he didn't knock when he came. He kicked in Johnny's door. He saw me trying to clean my wounds – the same ones I'd been telling him for months were results of my growing clumsiness. He was going to kill Johnny. Even back then my brother carried a gun. I managed to convince him not to. Eli had your mama to think about…I couldn't let him go down for me. But your daddy beat Joe so bad that he didn't even look at me again." Althea continues. "Is that what happened with Marcus's friend, baby? Is that why that boy's sitting in jail?"

The conversation shifts and the question startles Olivia slightly. Her brain doesn't want her to answer the question, but she needs to, desperately. Minus her clouded memory, she's raw and opened right now, speaking in a language she's almost certain no one but the woman in front of her knows.

"That night that I spent here, the night that Marcus made me come home with him. It was because Fitz, Marcus's friend, saw Russell hit me. I was singing down at Joe's and when I got off stage, Russ was waiting for me. We started arguing and he smacked me. It was the first time he'd ever hit me in public. I didn't know Fitz was watching, but he was and he stepped in between us. He and Russ scuffled a little, but Marcus came over to break it up and then dragged me back here." She skips over talking to Fitz, falling asleep with him, and waking up the next morning to kiss him.

"I went home the next day to an irate Russell…he accused me of trying to sleep with Fitz and we fought. He pulled at my clothes and tried to pin me down. I kept fighting and he let me go. Before he left he told me he'd kill me before he ever let me go. He said he would and I didn't believe him, but I should've. I should've.

I went to Joes and had a little too much to drink. Fitz was there and I asked him to take me back to my apartment because I was still upset and drunk. When we got back to my place, I asked him to stink around until I got comfortable and settled. I must've fallen asleep for a bit there because when I came to, Russell was there and Fitz was still there too…but we didn't. He and I. Nothing happened between me and Fitz, but Russell saw him in our apartment and just went mad. He had a gun and he shot at us. He and Fitz fought and the gun disappeared then…" Her stomach starts to coil inward and the spots in her memory grow as she dances around some of the truth, some of the behavior she'd rather not tell her aunt about. Despite what they've shared this…well, Olivia isn't certain what time it is truly, she doubts her aunt would be okay with hearing how her only niece tried to drunkenly seduce a stranger.

"Fitz shot him?" Althea asks.

"I . . . Auntie Thea." Olivia's eyes fill with tears. "I don't know. He said he did, but I think I did. I think…Russell said he was going to kill me and I think I killed him, but I can't remember." Her expression is pleading, fearful, and anxious. She wants to remember. She truly does.

"Bug…I think, I think it's time we let your dad in on this conversation."

/

He's bounced between several operators and a very scratchy voiced receptionist before he reaches the office of MG Howard at Fort McNair.

"Grant Jr. you know you been sea locked so long that you don't know how your legs work? Calling when you can talk in person?"

The older man laughs and Fitz rolls his eyes, letting his head drop against the wall as he stands at the phone. His body desperately aches for something a little softer than cement and he's worried about Olivia.

Leaning against the wall across from him, Detective Jenkins stands, arms folded across her chest. Fitz knows that she knows what he's done, or rather what he hasn't, and he hopes she'll keep it to herself. "I, uhm, kinda can't right now sir. I'm in D.C. Jail…"

"Jail, what in the fly blue hell. Boy…if you got drunk and flipped a few tables, I'm going to put my boot in your ass before your father…"

Fitz cuts him off quickly. "I found Russell Robinson, sir. I found him and…he was hurting a friend of mine."

"Say no more, Grant. I'll be there shortly with counsel. We'll get this moved to the UCMJ in no time."

"Yes, Sir."

"And I mean it when I said say no more. Keep your mouth shut until we can get you back on a base."

Fitz nods, though he knows MG Howard can't see him, and hangs up the phone. His mind wanders back to Russell, to the desperate and crazed man with no way out.

"Was that your get out of jail free card?" Detective Jenkins asks. She pushes off the wall and puts both hands on her hips. She's a tall woman, lean yet muscular.

"Does it matter?"

"I usually pride myself on being able to see through people, but either you're being straight up with me here or you're just good at playing it both ways. White men like you are a rarity in my line of work."

Fitz nods. Theoretically speaking, he knows the world's always been this Black and White but he's ashamed to admit that the weight of color had never been this heavy on his shoulders. Ever. "I don't know how many more ways I can say 'I pulled the trigger' here."

"I believe you." Detective Jenkins says. "It's just making sure Olivia does, too."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: I'm tired y'all. Grad school is exhausting. But I did publish/will be be publishing my first two written pieces. A short story and a personal essay.

* * *

"You've gotta be shittin' me, Grant," MG Howard howls. The older man nearly spits bullets as they walk towards the 67' Chevy.

Fitz rubs his knotted neck. His eyes blister beneath the late evening sunlight. Two nights split between a wooden chair and cement blocks leaves his bones cracking and bellowing beneath his trimmed frame.

"Now I've got to get your ass back down to Norfolk before someone realizes I'm not bringing this shit to your Commander or one of those Black radical groups get ahold of you."

"You're not?" Fitz asks. He's taken aback by the fact that he won't be facing any charges.

"Why should I? You look like shit. I can see that you pulled the trigger in self-defense."

Instinctively Fitz rubs his dry and cracked fingers over his swollen left eye. Russell hadn't been a light weight when it came to throwing down but neither had he. If it hadn't been for Olivia in the end, though, Fitz doesn't know if he'd still be breathing. For a brief second he considers telling MG Howard what really happened, but refrains. His thoughts turn to Olivia and his heart constricts in his chest. She'd been a mess when her father led her out of the police station hours ago, barely able to stand on her toes, and desperate to sort through the night's events. Somehow he almost can't believe what last night

"Earth to Grant, the hell you over thinking about?" MG Howard says over the top of the car. "Get in the damn car."

Fitz climbs into the passenger seat and runs a hand through his frayed curls. He buckles up and despite the strong urge to slump forward, he sits rod straight. His years in the Navy stop him from bending his spine. "I need to grab my things." He says, thoughts on Olivia.

"Do I look like the milkman to you? God damnit, kid." Howard rests his hands on the wheel. "You can't have whatever his name is – the damn boy you came up here with – to bring your shit back?"

Their eyes meet and Howard groans deep from his chest. He fires off a line of expletives before throwing the car in drive and peeling out of the police station parking lot.

/

The neighborhood looks different under the late light of day. It doesn't seem as friendly as Fitz remembers. A car he doesn't recognize sits in the driveway. It's sleeker, newer. Unease rests heavy on Fitz's chest. He climbs the steps to the wide country porch that belongs to Marcus's mother. Sweat pools on his brow and there's a pang of regret bouncing around his stomach. He has no choice but to leave. MG Howard is right; it's time to go. But he doesn't want to think about leaving Olivia.

"Fitz?" Marcus says. He pushes open the screen door and ushers Fitz inside. "I thought they had you downtown."

Fitz tilts his head back, towards MG Howard's idling car. "I called in a favor. MG Howard, he served with my father in WWII. He's taking the case to the UMCJ."

"The UMCJ? What's that mean for you?"

"It means it's his get out of jail free card." Olivia's father says as he walks into the large, open living room.

The middle-aged man looks worse for wear. His in a wrinkled suit with the sleeves of his button up pushed up to his elbows. His expression is indiscernible.

"Uncle Eli, this is Fitz, he was with Olivia when –"

"I know," Eli says. Much like his voice, Eli's tone is also indiscernible, level.

Fitz swallows and holds his right hand out for Eli to take. "Sir."

Eli glances down at Fitz's open palm. "What you did for my daughter." The old man almost seems at a loss for words, but he doesn't take Fitz's hand.

What seems like minutes ticks by and Fitz finally curls his fingers inward. He lets his fist drop to his sides. He doesn't know what Eli knows, but it's obvious that the man knows _something_.

Whatever he knows, though, will go unanswered. Before Fitz knows what's happening, Olivia runs into his arms. He hadn't heard her come in and for damn sure didn't see her coming.

She smells like fresh lavender and mint. Her head is a mess of tightly round curls that sit on her shoulders and she's much smaller than he remembers. Her arms wrap around his waist and she buries her face in his chest.

Fitz is taken aback by her open display of affection, but returns her touch nonetheless. He gently squeezes her, careful to listen for any hisses of pain. Russell didn't just knock him down and around. Thinking about Olivia's confession from the night before, the one about what Russell tried to do to her, causes Fitz's grip to tighten. He's never felt so drawn to another human being before. He wants to protect her – love her. In just four days, she's gotten inside his heart and head.

Olivia breaks away first. Her cheeks are wet and he can tell she's been silently sobbing this entire time. Tears wet his shirt.

"I know I haven't had a shower in a couple of days but I can't smell that bad." Fitz jokes. His slate eyes take a look around the room and he sees that the beloved Aunt Thea and Harrison have joined the room.

"My dad – did he; he said he?" she asks.

It takes Fitz a second to realize she's asking about his release. He shakes his head no, offering her a somber smile. "I made a call to a friend. I've…I got to go, Livvie. Head back to base so I can go in front of my commander."

Olivia's eyes swell with unshed tears.

"Give them the room." Althea yells. Almost immediately a choir of no's resounds through the house. "This is my house and I said give them the room."

At the sound of his mother's voice, Marcus raises his hands in surrender and walks from the room.

"Elijah." Althea says, voice low.

Fitz catches Eli's eyes as the old man walks towards the kitchen. Their gaze holds steady for several moments. Eli's eyes are stone. Althea follows behind.

Once he's certain they're alone, Fitz pulls Olivia close, in a tighter hug. His lips sit at the shell of her ear and he whispers, "I've got you. Don't say anything, I've got you."

/

Olivia pulls back, the tears that sting her eyes flood her face. She's a fresh picked scab, raw and wide open. The ache in her chest outpaces the ache in her head. How the hell she's still standing, she doesn't know. Telling Eli about the abuse had almost leveled her. Matter of fact, moments before Fitz found his way back into her family's home, she'd been in the middle of convincing her father to go free him.

Despite being within arm's reach and yearning to be held again, Olivia takes a step away from him.

"My dad won't let me tell the truth." Her voice shakes. "I – I told him that I think I did it. He wouldn't let me go get you. Fitz, please. Please tell me if I did it. I remember after he hit me, he –"

He stops her, grabbing her face gently between his hands. His thumbs runs along her chin. She winces at the gentle pressure.

"Don't worry about it, Livvie. I handled it. Okay? I've got to go now."

Olivia can't stop the panic that crosses her face. "What?"

A frown mars Fitz's features. "I've got to grab my things and head back to Norfolk. I have to go before my commander."

"I don't want you to go," she pleads. They don't know each other. She has no reason to feel this way about the mere thought of his disappearance, but she does. He's protecting her at his own cost, but even before then she'd been endeared to him. From the moment he'd walked into Joes.

"Please don't leave." The ache in her chest grows more acute, more pointed. She slips between his arms once more, burying here face into his chest.

Is it possible to suffer heartbreak when she isn't even in love with him? _But you could be. You might._ She thinks, tightening her grip. He responds in kind.

A knock on the door causes her to jump.

Olivia lifts her head in time to see Marcus trickle in from the kitchen. He casts a sideways glance in her direction on his way to the door.

Marcus opens the door and a chorus of chaos unfolds.

The sound of a gun being cocked stops Olivia's heart. Fitz's arms drop from around her and he lifts them above his head.

"You don't want to do this, Randy." Marcus shouts.

Olivia takes a step back to find Randall Robinson, Russell's eighteen-year-old brother. He's dressed in all black, dons a black beret on his head, and black riding gloves hold the gun he has pointed to the back of Fitz's head.

"He killed my brother," Randy screams.

Althea and Eli rush into the room. Althea gasps and Eli raises his hands.

"Come on, son. Put the gun down," Eli says.

"Randy…" Olivia cries. "Put it down, please."

"Randall, I know your mom didn't raise you like this. I know she didn't." Althea says. "Olivia, baby, get over here." She reaches for Olivia's hand, but Olivia pulls away.

"No!" Guilt swirls over panic and Olivia's eyes sweep around the room. It's another standoff. Her ears ring and she feels nauseous. Her heart thumps wildly in her chest.

"He killed him! He killed my brother and y'all are just standing there. Welcoming into your home. My brother!"

Olivia sidesteps Fitz, her eyes meeting his. He seems oddly calm despite the gun to his head. "Randy, Russell was hurting me." Her voice cracks. "He was – he was _beating_ me." Admitting out loud what she's held close to her chest for the last several months both hurts and helps. Saying out loud what she's been denying for so long.

"You're lying!" Randall 's voice splinters. He's just a kid. Despite the gun in his hand he's a kid and his brother had been everything to him.

"He was using, Ran. He ran away from the army. He was in a bad way and –"

She catches Fitz's eyes.

"Don't," Fitz mouths, tilting his head towards her.

"I—"

"Do not, Olivia."

"Listen to Fitzgerald, Olivia," Eli says.

 _I killed him_. The words die on her tongue and she hates herself for not being able to say them.

"Put the gun down, Randall. Please." Olivia tries again. "Please, put it down."

Randall's face swells, the gun trembles in his hand, and he sobs.

"You're not a killer, Randy. You're not." Without thinking, Olivia reaches for the gun. Soon as her fingers touch the steel, she knows without Fitz's confirmation that she did indeed pull the trigger nights ago. The guilt swells. "Randy, I did it. I did."

Randy's eyes dart to hers. "You're lying. I don't care what you say he did, you wouldn't kill him."

"Olivia!" Fitz and Eli yell in unison.

The front door bangs open again. A tall, man with close cropped graying blond hair barges in. He's dressed in a muddy green uniform – a fancy one that's decorated regalia. His name tag reads Howard. He aims a gun at Randall. "I'll drop you in a three count if you don't put that gun down, boy."

"Don't, Howard!" Fitz yells. "Don't!"

"1!"

"Lower it, Randy…" Olivia asks.

"2!"

Three never comes. Marcus sends the gun sailing out of both Randy and Olivia's hold. It falls to the floor, spinning against the hardwood. Eli picks it up.

Randy sobs loudly as he collapses to the ground.

Olivia ducks her head low. All of this is because of her. Silent tears flow down her face and she tries to sink down next to Randy, but Fitz's stops her. His left arm goes under her knees and his right supports her back.

"Fitzgerald Grant!" Howard hisses. "It's time to—"

"I need a damn minute!" Fitz growls.

She burrows into his chest as he makes his way to the stairs.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** As some of you know, I lost my mom a couple of years ago. Last night I lost her sister, my aunt. I didn't know what else to do today since I'm on the opposite side of the country, away from my family, so I wrote. It was the only thing to make me feel better.

I hope you all enjoy. Hold your loved ones close, too. You never have as much time as you think you do.

Lyrics, of course, are not mine.

And no, the story is not over.

* * *

Moonlight peaks in through the thin white curtains as night settles on Logan Circle. Olivia sobs softly into Fitz's shirt, fingers curling into the soft cotton. He supports her back with his left hand and rubs lazy circles on her bare thigh. The terrycloth rainbow shorts she wears seem to be one size too big; they ride up and drown her small frame simultaneously.

Hurt emanates from her, causing Fitz physical pain. He wants to crack himself in two, split his ribcage in half and build a shield around Olivia to stop the outside world from getting in. He feels tied to her now; their lives intertwined. He has the innate need to protect her.

"I didn't want to hurt him," Olivia says. "I loved him. I don't – he was going to hurt me."

"He was – he did. You can't set fire to yourself to save someone else, Olivia." Fitz assures her. "You did the right thing."

"But—"

"No, you did the right thing." He leaves no room for her to argue. "Please, know that." He tightens his grip on her, holds her close and kisses the crown of her head.

She flexes her fingers tangled in his shirt; lets the well-worn material go and relaxes in his hold. Neither of them speaks. Her body rises and falls against his chest. As she exhales, he inhales. The warm light of the bedroom bathes them in hazy yellows.

Fitz almost wishes he could bottle this moment up and keep it forever; perhaps replay it whenever he's longing for her across the sea.

Across the sea. His heart grows somber. He thinks of MG Howard a floor below. He thinks of the setting sun and the rising tide of nightfall in D.C. The time has come.

"I have to go soon, Livvie," he whispers. Her head is tucked beneath his chin.

"Please don't," Olivia says, voice low – meek. She's lightyears away from the brass, confident woman he'd met all those days ago.

"I need you to do me a favor when I go," Fitz starts, "I need you to stay quiet about Russell. Let me bear that burden for you."

"You don't even know me, Fitz. I can't—" she's says. A hiccup interrupts her words. She lifts her head, bottom lip trembling and tears digging tracks down her cheeks.

"You can, you hear me. I've got you, Olivia. I'm not letting anything happen to you. I refuse. Do you hear me?" he asks.

"I don't understand. Why me? Why are you doing this for me?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

Fitz pauses and turns her question over in his mind. The answer is simple: he thinks he loves her. It's ridiculous as hell and they've barely known each for a week, but he does. He's never believed in love at first sight, but since laying eyes on her his heart has beat differently. It's softer, lighter, but somehow twice as fierce when she's near. The thought of leaving her here, alone – sure she has her family, but nonetheless –squeezes his heart.

He has to leave soon. He still has six months of active duty left. Before Olivia, he had been certain he'd reenlist once his time is up, but now the thought of another three years at sea kills him. He's old enough with enough experience and qualifications to teach flight school, but even then that puts him hundreds of miles away from her. And why would she want him anyways? She's kissed him a handful of times, come onto him, but her mental situation at the time had been dire. She doesn't want him. She couldn't possibly.

"I…" His voice trails off. Fitz closes his eyes.

Olivia's sobs cease to small sniffles. She shifts in his lap and sits up. Her right hand comes to rest on his right cheek. Her fingers are soft and warm against his razor stubble. She tilts his chin down and runs her thumb along his bottom lip. The gesture causes a smile to cross his face.

"I'm going to miss you," Olivia whispers. Large tears sit in the corners of her eyes.

"No you won't. You'll forget about me in days."

She purses her lips together, takes a measured pause, and then speaks. "I could never forget you. You saved my life."

"Promise me you'll listen to me and to your father. Don't…don't tell anyone. Let me take the blame for this. Promise me."

Olivia looks away. "I can't…"

"You can." He repeats. "Say it."

"I promise." The tears roll down her cheeks and she sniffles.

Fitz wipes at her eyes and kisses her forehead. It's going to kill him to leave her. They quiet once more. He's thankful she can't see his face. His expression is full of pain, worry, and fear. He can only trust that once he walks out of the door and back into his life that her father and her family can protect her. He doesn't think the kid from earlier will hurt Olivia, but he wishes he could stay.

" _Son of a Preacher Man_ ," Olivia whispers, catching Fitz's attention.

"What?" He frowns, confusion overtaking the pain on his face. He pulls back and looks down at Olivia.

"That's the song I think of when I think of you. It's _Son of a Preacher Man_."

His face scrunches up. "I don't think I know that one."

"Dusty Springfield, but Aretha sang it better." Olivia wipes at her eyes. "I match people to songs. I got it from my mom. She would tell me to think of who I would sing the song to I was trying to learn. She said it helped her remember."

Again Fitz shakes his head. He shrugs, though he feels privileged at hearing about something she's shared with her mother. He'd learned from Marcus a couple of days back that Olivia's mother Maya had died a few years back.

The sound of Olivia clearing her throat catches his attention. She licks her lips and slips from Fitz's ever tightening grip. Her face is tear streaked. She sits down next to him and takes a deep breath in. Her eyes find his.

 _Billy Ray was a preacher's son  
And when his daddy would visit he'd come along  
When they gathered around and started talkin'  
That's when Billy would take me walkin'  
Out through the back yard we'd go walkin'  
Then he'd look into my eyes  
Lord knows, to my surprise_

Just like days prior, he finds himself leaning into her voice, mesmerized. Its velvet. Smooth, but sultry. The notes float from her lips. He smiles, unable to take his eyes off of her.

 _The only one who could ever reach me  
Was the son of a preacher man  
The only boy who could ever teach me  
Was the son of a preacher man  
Yes, he was, he was, yes, he was_

She stops, cracks a half smile.

There goes Fitz's fluttering heart again. "I don't understand," he admits. "Why that song?"

Olivia holds up a finger. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. It's almost as if she's trying to remember the lyrics.

"Livvie?"

She raises her finger a little higher.

 _How well I remember  
The look that was in his eyes  
Stealin' kisses from me on the sly  
Takin' time to make time  
Tellin' me that he's all mine  
Learnin' from each other's knowin'  
Lookin' to see how much we've grown and_

 _The only one who could ever reach me  
Was the son of a preacher man  
The only boy who could ever teach me  
Was the son of a preacher man_

The words touch Fitz and his throat constricts. He swallows around a knot budding in his throat. Tentatively he lifts his hand, somewhat still afraid that she'll pull away. Russell might be gone, but muscle memory has no shelf life, unfortunately. Shell shock is a thing. But Olivia doesn't flinch when his hand lands against her chin. There's some discoloration underneath her eye from where Russell hit her. Bruises still line her wrist. He does as she did moments ago and runs his thumb along her bottom lip.

She gives him a watery smile. "Do you really have to go?"

He nods. "Please take care of yourself."

Her next movement comes as a surprise. Ever so slightly, she leans in until their lips brush together.

It's a soft kiss, gentle. He almost wants to deep it, but doesn't out of respect. He has no idea where they stand or what she's doing, but he doesn't question it, though it confirms what he already knows; somehow, someway, he's in love with her.

/

Olivia rests her head on her father's shoulder. Silent tears pour past her cheeks. Fitz stands on the porch, bag slung over his shoulder. MG Howard's car idles on the street. The

"You're welcome here any time, baby" Althea says as she tucks a sandwich into Fitz's hand. Much like her niece, she's smitten with Fitz, too.

"Thank you, ma'am," Fitz responds.

"I'll see you in two days, bud." Marcus claps Fitz on his back. "Good luck with the commander. And thank you for saving Olivia. She's a pain in the ass, but we can stand to lose anyone else around here."

Olivia rolls her eyes at her cousin's words, biting back a snarky retort. She's in too much pain to bother. Part of her wanted to stay upstairs, hidden away. The thought of having to watch Fitz disappear into a D.C night is killing her. He's in her heart. She can't even think of what's coming in her future without imagining him being there. She squeezes her father's arm and swallows around a lump in her throat.

"You better get going. I have a feeling Randall wasn't alone," Eli says. The old man keeps his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

"Yes, sir." Fitz walks to the top step and gives Olivia a crooked smile. She doesn't want him to go and has to force herself to stop from screaming out stay! It isn't safe for him anymore. And it's all because of her.

Through bleary eyes, Olivia watches as he makes it to the sidewalk.

"Oh baby…" Althea says, squeezing Olivia's shoulder.

Olivia turns from her father, nearly crawling into her aunt's arms. Althea soothes her, running a hand up and down Olivia's back. "We'll get through this, Livvie. We will."

"Wait!" Eli says.

Her father's words cause Olivia to lift her head. She shifts in her aunt's arms at the unmistakable sound of her father's footsteps.

"Son," Eli starts, prompting Fitz to stop. The old man reaches the last step and holds out his hand. "Thank you for saving my daughter."

Olivia's mouth parts in disbelief. She blinks, double checking to make certain she isn't imagining the interaction. When her eyes open again, her father's hand still hangs in air, waiting.

"You're welcomed, Mr. Pope, sir. I would do it again without question." Fitz's hand meets Eli's and they shake. Seconds later they break apart.

"Take care of yourself, son." Eli says.

Fitz nods and takes a last look back. "Mrs. Walker, Mr. Pope, Livvie…" And this disappears into the idling car.

Once the car shifts gears and begins to pull down the street, Olivia has the urge to run after him. And she almost does, but stops short.

Eli walks back up the porch steps. "That…that is a good man."

 _He is._ Silently, Olivia agrees.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Your condolences are much appreciated.

* * *

All he can see is sky and water. His heart thumps like wild in his chest. The sound of the jet engine causes his blood to pump harder as the aircraft climbs higher. Flying has always been his choice of drug. He breathes in, watching the horizon disappear as he pulls the nose of the jet upward and steers onto the deck of HMS Ark Royal. For the last month he's been a part of cross-deck operations with the Royal Navy as the USS Independence treads water off the coast of the United Kingdom.

Once his wheels touch the deck, he cuts the engine and de-planes. His expertise with engines is needed for the afternoon. He pulls off his helmet and takes a look around. A tall man with jet black hair and a thin build approaches him.

"Officer Grant?" The man with a thick Scottish accent asks.

Fitz nods. "Call me Fitz."

"Stephen." He offers, gesturing Fitz over to a row of planes and a pile of tools. "Our mechanic is down for the three count right now. Some type of flu so we've quarantined him off. Sure you can fix it?"

"I've been around planes of all types since I was a kid. I think I can do it."

Stephen nods and claps Fitz on the back. "I'll leave you to it then."

/

Two hours and some change later, Fitz wipes his grease stained fingers on his muddy green trousers. His muscles ache from pulling out pins and pieces of engine. He sports a nasty tear on his left hand across his knuckles from getting his fingers stuck between a set of gears.

"Water?" Stephen asks, holding out a canteen.

Fitz takes the water and takes a sip and then pours the reset across his hand. Blood and grease mingle together. The coolness of the water soothes the burn across his knuckles. "Thanks, man."

Stephen gives him a mock salute. "That was rather quick."

"Not really. After screwing up my hand I slowed down or I would've been done much sooner. Mind got away from me though."

"Thinking about something? Someone?" Stephen asks.

Fitz's lips thin out in a rueful smile. He's been thinking about her every day since saying goodbye. When Marcus's had returned to port all those weeks ago, Fitz had stood by on deck waiting and hoping to see Olivia again, but it'd just been Marcus and Harrison.

Stephen laughs. "She must be something if you're getting your hand stuck in an engine thinking about her."

"I…" Fitz starts, but stops. He takes a look out at the sea, to his wading ship across the distance. "She's something."

"Look, both of our ships are docking soon. How about you and a few of your friends on deck come into the port? We can grab some drinks. Maybe grab something else, if you can catch what I'm laying down?"

"I gotcha."

"There's no ring on that finger after all. Come and enjoy yourself, mate."

Fitz's shoulders roll forward to release some of the tension tightening his frame. He considers Stephen's offer and figures Stephen's right. He isn't married and Olivia's not his girl. Maybe a minute on shore with a pretty girl is just the thing to clear his mind.

/

The Three Bulls Heads in Newcastle is a small and smoky establishment. Navy men on both ends of the isle, British and American, pile into the pub. Fitz is surprised to find that the bar is a mix of patrons. While he knows that the UK is far from perfect when it comes to race relations, he draws the conclusion that the US could learn a lot. Marcus and a few other Black US Navy men shoot pool at a table off to the corner, a couple of other Navy men throw darts. Fitz picks at some homemade chips – crisps – and drinks an IPA of some sorts. He isn't in the spirit for drinks or to be rowdy, but he's glad his shipmates are finding a bit of reprieve from sea. Thankfully they're not scheduled to head back East, to Vietnam. Their voyage is six months at sea and then back to Norfolk. Word is anyways that the war is set to draw to a close soon. For the first time in his nearly eleven year career, he wants to go home.

"What's on your mind, handsome?"

Fitz turns at the sound of the voice with a drawl he's slightly familiar with. He thinks it's a Geordie accent, but isn't too sure. Motown blares over the bar's speakers. It's odd feeling of being home, but not to hear the sounds. In front of him stands a pretty, pale woman with sandy blonde hair that's bone straight and cuts off at her collarbone. She wears a peter pan collar dress in brown and white with orange tights. Her eyes are an electric blue.

"What's the American expression, a penny for your thoughts?" She asks.

Fitz smiles and holds out his hand. "Fitzgerald."

"Emma." She answers, taking his hand. She nods to the empty seat next to Fitz and he nods. She takes the chair. "You must have Irish in your with a name like Fitzgerald."

"Great-great grandparents were from Cork on my father's side."

"So you're almost home in a sense." She flirts, leaning in and touching Fitz's hand that rests on the bar top.

"Almost," he agrees.

"Well, Mr. Almost, what brings you ashore tonight?"

Fitz's eyes zip around the room in search of Stephen. He spots the Ark Royal man talking up a red-head near the back of the bar. "A friend suggested I come ashore and release some tension."

"Really?" she says, leaning in. She lets her shoulder bump against Fitz's. "Could I offer you some help there?"

Heat creeps into his cheeks and he dips his head. "Uhm."

"Would you like to dance?" Emma asks. "I love to dance and find that American men usually have a better sway in their steps than the boys here."

He tugs on the collar of his shirt, suddenly feeling like he's under a microscope. Emma's eyes are large and her gaze unwavering as she waits for him to answer her question. He wants to pull back, away, but stops short. "I'm not much of a dancer."

"I'll help you." Emma tugs on his hand, peeling it away from the bar and drags him over to the tiny dance space. She pulls his close.

Over her shoulder Fitz catches a glimpse of Marcus giving him a thumbs up before returning to his game of billiards.

"Don't be so stiff Fitzgerald." Emma says.

He tries his hardest to loosen up and take in Emma's company. He truly does. And eventually he finds that he's enjoying another warm body near his that doesn't smell like Irish Spring nor shaves a beard.

Three beers and a two shots of whiskey help him, too. A couple of hours later he finds himself twisting through the back roads of Newcastle with Emma. She giggles as he backs her into a brick wall and kisses her. Liquid courage spurns him on and she puts enough distance in between them to find her breath.

"My place is just a few steps up if you're up for a nightcap?"

He nods, lips moving towards her mouth once again, but stops as a passing car chugs along the road. He hears the song Olivia sang to him before he left with MG Howard all those weeks back. The music comes and goes with the car, but nonetheless, he pulls away from Emma. He rubs the dirty blonde curls on his head and gives her a crooked smile.

Emma stares at him, confused. "You okay, Fitz?"

He shakes his head. "No, uh…Emma, you're a lovely girl. Beautiful. Truly. I'd be honored to have a nightcap with you, but I can't."

She frowns, folding her arms across her chest. Her lipstick is smeared across Fitz's face. "Why not?"

"There's a woman back home…I'm in love with her and I can't do this with you."

"She doesn't have to know, though." Emma says.

"But I would." Fitz answers. He feels silly for his answer; silly for stepping away from Emma when Olivia isn't even his. They're not together and he has a real opportunity to blow off steam here.

Emma smiles. "Okay. I can understand that. I can respect that. You're a good man."

For some reason he doesn't feel like it though.

"Need me to help you find your way back to the bar?"

He reaches down and grabs Emma's left hand. He kisses it gently. "I think I've got it."

/

Another day out at sea, another day doing cross-deck repairs comes and goes. His almost tryst with Emma is a fading memory, a break between land, sea, and air. He lies in his bunk, trying – and failing – to take a nap before lunch.

"You got a letter, Grant," Marcus says as he enters the sleeping quarters.

Fitz sits up and rests his elbows on his knees. "I already got my mail."

Marcus holds up an envelope that has his name scrawled across it in perfect penmanship he doesn't recognize.

"Who's it from?"

"Olivia."

"Really?" Fitz's heart flutters in his chest and he tries his hardest to hide his excitement. "Why did she send it to you?"

"She didn't know your FPO."

"Did you read it?"

Marcus pulls a face. "Look, whatever you and my cousin have going on, it's none of my business."

"There's nothing going on between—"

Marcus holds up his hand. "It's between you two. I didn't read it." He tosses the letter onto the end of Fitz's bed and walks out.

Thick fingers tremble as Fitz cracks open the already opened letter. He's surprised to find a small photo of Olivia, tucked into the letter. In the photo, she sits on her aunt's porch, dressed in a sleeveless white halter top and high waist jean shorts. She wears white Keds and her hair is bone straight, half up, half down. He turns the photo over. Olivia's neat and nearly perfect penmanship stares back at him:

 _For the preacher's son._

 _Love,_

 _Olivia_

He smiles, chuckling to himself as he traces the words with his right pointer finger before setting the photo down on the bed next to him. He turns his attention to the letter and pulls it out, reading it.

 _June 1_ _st_ _, 1971_

 _Dear Fitz,_

 _I realized after you left that I never got your FPO to write you so I'm sending this to Marcus._

 _If he reads it, you have my full permission to knock him overboard. He knows how to swim. And if he doesn't, only my aunt will miss him._

 _Russell's family forbid me from going to his funeral. I should've figured they would. My dad wouldn't let me go anyways. I've moved back home, too. For now, at least. My dad wouldn't leave D.C without me so I'm back in PG for the time being. I'm working in his law office. It's not singing, but I think my dad was right: I did need to take a break from that world. I'm also talking to a therapist, per Aunt Thea's suggestion._

 _I'm not good at writing my feelings down. Matter of fact, I'm downright bad at it. I don't like being too vulnerable, but here we are. The night you left, I had to stop myself from running after you. I don't know how to thank you for what you've done for me. You saw me and saw through me. At first I hated you for it. I wanted you to go away. But you didn't. And I still don't know why. I still don't know why I can't stop thinking about you either, but I can't. I miss you. I don't know when you are coming home or where you'll be when you do come home, but I'd like it if you would come find me. Or, as the Supremes' said, Come see about me._

 _Yours always,_

 _Olivia_

Fitz's eyes read and re-read the words before moving back to the photo. He smiles wide, studying the photo a little while longer before leaning over to his bedside and opening his nightstand. He grabs the KJV bible and slips Olivia's photo inside, next to a photo of his parents, and then folds up the letter, sliding it in too. He grabs his yellow pad of paper, tucked under his bible, and then a pen.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Every time I try to write something else, this story comes out instead.

* * *

"Is it for me?" Olivia asks. It's been nearly a month since she sent her letter to Fitz and she's yet to hear back from him.

"No, Livvie," Althea answers. Two envelopes dangle from the older woman's long fingers. Olivia eyes them eagerly, noting that neither of them have her name on the front. They make their way through the house, to the kitchen. "Why didn't you just give the boy your address?"

Olivia chortles. "Yeah, right. With daddy? I was surprised that he even shook Fitz's hand when he did. If he finds out that I'm –" she pauses, drawing her bottom lip into her mouth. "Well, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Flirting through letter. Imagine if we had phones that could send messages quick as fire." She levels her niece with a quirked brow.

"Aunt Thea, be serious. You know daddy. I don't think he'd be okay with this thing."

"Baby, I won't lie, your dad is a stick in the mud, but do you think he'd really be against this? After everything Fitzgerald's done for you?"

Olivia doesn't hesitate. "Yes." Loving v. Virginia might've made mixed racial relationships legal, but she highly doubts her father cares.

"You don't give your dad enough credit. Speaking of which, when's he coming down to get you?" Althea sits down at the kitchen table and Olivia follows her lead.

She glances up at the clock on the pale yellow wall, right above the kitchen sink. It's 11:23 A.M. "At four." She props her elbow up on the table and drops her chin into her hand. "It's been two months, why won't he let me be an adult again?"

"You went through a lot, Liv. You're his baby."

"But I'm not _a_ baby."

Althea exhales. "You're not. He's just worried. He's being a good father. After everything with Russell – we could've lost you."

"But you didn't. I'm here. I'm _okay._ "

"Mhmm, how's therapy going?"

Olivia looks away at her aunt's question. She _hates_ therapy. Just the mere thought of someone tinkering around in her brain, using big words and concepts she can't quite understand, drives her crazy. Dr. Summer is a nice enough woman, and Olivia counts herself lucky to have found a Black female psychologist. The hour and a half drive every Tuesday is awful, but she knows it could be worse.

"Liv?"

She sighs. "It's fine. It's just a lot sometimes. It feels weird to be talking to someone about _my_ problems."

"You haven't said anything about Russell's death, have you?"

"No."

"Good. You did what you had to do. Never forget that."

"I haven't – I won't. It's just hard. I loved him, Aunt Thea. I thought we were going to get married one day. He…"

"Gave you some of life's greatest pleasures and pain."

Olivia's face scrunched up at her aunt's use of the word pleasure. She never wanted to hear her aunt say pleasure again.

"Girl don't give me that look. I know you were having sex with Russell. Unmarried sex at that. The sexual revolution is all around." Thea waves her hands in air in exaggerated motions. "Your daddy might think you're a virginal angel, but I know better. I was you before you were you."

/

"Ready, Sweet Pea?" Eli asks.

Olivia lifts her head from the latest addition of Ebony. The warm July sun beats down on her skin as she sits on her aunt's porch. A frown crosses her face instantaneously at her father's presence. _Time to get carted off home._

"I thought I heard your card," Althea says. She wipes her wet hands on her apron and steps out onto the porch.

"Hey, Thee. How's the day treating you?"

"Always good if I get to spend it with my niece. You know I never did find it fair that you got the girl and I got saddled with stubborn stinky boys."

Olivia laughs from her lawn chair.

"At least all your hair is still brown, I'm salt n' pepper because of this one." Eli points to Olivia whose mouth drops open in mock shock.

The Pope siblings laugh. Olivia closes her magazine and stretches, holding her arms high above her head. Her back cracks and she yawns. Another night of dinner and Flip Wilson sits on her horizon.

"Let me go get my bag and I'll be ready." Olivia pads to her feet and moves to head inside, but stops as Althea holds up her hand.

"Eli, I've been thinking, with Marcus off on his ship again and Harrison in and out, I get lonely in this big old house. Let Livvie stay with me for a night."

Olivia's narrows her eyes, tilting her head to look at her aunt.

A frown crosses Eli's face at his sister's suggestion. "I don't know." He rubs the back of his neck.

Althea raises a brow at her brother's uncertainty. "And why not? You don't think I can keep my niece safe? Am I a bad mother? Influence?"

"Now, Thee, you damn well that's not it. Olivia's not ready to – she's not…D.C. is no place for her."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Olivia turns, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Jesus, women…" Eli mutters.

"What now?" Olivia and Althea say in unison.

Eli shifts on his toes, uncomfortable. "I'm just saying, honey." He sighs. "It's only been a couple of months since everything and I don't want to worry about you being here."

"At Aunt Thea's? Daddy, I'm a grown woman. I don't need your permission to stay."

"Livvie…" Eli starts. He itches his jaw, a bead of sweat rolls down his chin.

"What's it gonna be, Elijah. Gonna treat your daughter like she's a grown woman or are you going to make her assert her independence the hard way? This girl might look like Maya, but her attitude is yours. Tread carefully."

Olivia watches as her father goes quiet, as if he's thinking about his sister's words.

"Fine, I'll be back tomorrow night." Eli relents. He holds both hands high. "I'm going to the bathroom and then after I'll be heading home. You call me to come get you whenever. I'll be here."

/

They're the same height, but definitely not the same size. Olivia pinches the extra fabric of the thin lavender nightgown draped around her thin frame. She sits in the kitchen with her aunt, sipping fresh ice tea with a splash (or two) of whiskey in it. The air is stagnant as the Pope women talk.

"Boy, let me tell you, your Uncle Andre knew how to put it on me," Althea says. She laughs to herself.

"How much whiskey did you put in your tea?" Olivia asks, laughing along with her aunt.

"A good bit," she answers, smiling at her niece across the table. "Does it matter though? You're knocking it back with me."

The share an oversized laugh, trading glances across the table. Eventually their laughter teeters off. They both breath slow, the same smile crossing their faces.

Olivia cuts her eyes over to her aunt, wondering just how truthful they can be with each other right now. She decides to test the waters with something small. "I gave my virginity to Russell when I was eighteen…"

Her words catch Thea's attention.

"I don't think he _put it on_ me, but it was nice…"

"I'm glad you had a good first time to remember, baby." Thea gives her niece a tight lipped smile.

Olivia frowns, remembering her aunt's confession all those nights ago. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

Thea waves her off. "I'm okay. I've long since had a man show me what love in the physical sense could be. I don't think about that any more. Eventually you won't either."

Olivia lifts her knees to her chest, fidgeting a moment longer before settling into the chair. Flashes of Russell float through her mind and she fights to blink them away. She exhales and then confesses, "I tried to sleep with Fitz."

Both of Althea's browns drag upward and shock ripples across her face. Her head snaps back a bit. "What?"

"I don't. I've only ever been with Russell, but the night Fitz took me home, after I fought with Russell and ended up at Joe's, I tried to seduce him. The details are murky because I had a bit to drink, but I did. And it wasn't the first time while he was here. I – I kissed him upstairs."

"Chile." Althea shifts in her chair and is all eyes on her niece.

"Have you ever _been_ with a white man?" Olivia catches her aunt off guard.

Thea opens her mouth, but shuts it seconds later. It's as if she's at a loss for words. She clicks her tongue a couple of times, eyes sweeping across the kitchen before back up to her niece. "Well, no. Things were – well they were different. Not that it didn't happen, but I never had that thought."

"You think it's different?"

"Well, I… I don't…know. They have all the same parts and bits." Thea waves her hand in air and then takes another sip of her whiskey tea. "I wouldn't see why not. They don't have much rhythm though, except for maybe Elvis, so I don't know how easy the ride would be…"

Olivia bursts into loud, uninhibited laughter. Her whole face heats up and her legs hit the floor. She nearly doubles over in her chair. "Oh my god."

"What? I'm just saying. You have to have a certain motion to make these things enjoyable and I just don't know if I'd want…okay. No, we're done with this conversation. If my brother could hear us right now. He probably still thinks you're not doing it."

"I lived with Russell, Auntie Thea. I think he knows."

"I think he told himself that you two were doing anything, but _that._ "

/

Olivia stretches her toes and yawns wide, turning on her side as she wakes up. The smell of bacon grease and fresh corn muffins wafts through the air. She props herself on her palms. There's a slight ache in her head from the whiskey in the tea last night. She hasn't had anything other than sips of red wine at dinner with her father since the night Russell met his maker.

She forces herself out of bed, onto her toes, and to the upstairs bathroom. As she brushes her teeth, she smiles somberly, thinking about the night she met Fitz. They'd collided in the hallway after Olivia tried to ice her bruise with cool water. Minutes later, she emerges from the bathroom and heads down to the kitchen. She finds her aunt at the stove, turning bacon. Olivia wrinkles her nose at the smell.

"I expected you to look like me," Olivia says. She takes her seat from the night prior.

"Oh no, it takes more than a half bottle of whiskey in some tea to do me in, baby. I'm ready to go." Althea smiles. "Got a corn muffin, some fresh cut tomatoes, and bacon for you. Got a glass of alka-seltzer, too."

"I'll definitely take the alka-seltzer."

Althea sets down a fizzing glass of water in front of Olivia.

Aluminum bangs against aluminum as Harrison's loud voice carries into the kitchen. Olivia frowns, rubbing the dull ache at her temples.

"Good morning, y'all!" Harrison says.

"Do you always have to be so loud?" Olivia asks. Her eyes catch sight of two envelopes that hang from his left hand. "What do you have?"

"Huh?" Harrison asks. He reaches for a piece of bacon with his right hand, but is stopped by Althea who smacks him across the knuckles with a wooden spoon. He drops the bacon and pulls his hand back. "Oh, the mail."

"It came already?"

"Yeah. I caught the mail man as he was coming up onto the - ow!" Harrison howl as Olivia snatches the envelopes.

Her smile grows wide as her eyes land on an envelope with her name on it, but her aunt's address. She drops the other envelope onto the kitchen table and rushes from the room, into the living room. Her fingers shake as she rips the envelope open. A picture of Fitz, dressed in his pilot uniform, standing next to Marcus falls out.

 _2 June 1971_

 _Dear Livvie,_

 _First I want to apologize for not having a photo of just me. I'm sure you have enough pictures of Marcus, but we don't do many photoshoots out on sea. I'm just hanging around in the North Sea. I've been on land a few times, but it's hard going ashore and knowing I won't be seeing your face. I think about you, a lot, too. And just so you know, I didn't have to push Marcus overboard; he didn't read your letter. He said – and I quote – whatever is going on between you and my cousin is your business._

 _So what do you say, Livvie, is there something going on between us? I really hope so because I miss you, too. When I got off the ship all those weeks ago and Marcus suggested I come up and stay with him, I wanted to say no. I almost did say no. My family's all the way out in California and the thought of spending time with someone else's family kind hurt, I won't lie. I also thought I'd be the odd man out. And then you happened. I don't regret what I did and I don't think I ever will. I've had deck duty for the last two months for 'causing a ruckus.' I think it's fucked up the way this country works that this is all I've been given, but just know I'd probably do anything for you. It scares me how much I feel for you so quickly. You kept saying that I don't know you and I think you're wrong, Livvie. I think I do know. I see you and you are extraordinary. I'm sorry that someone made you feel anything less than that and I want you to know that I will NEVER make you feel that way. Ever._

 _I want to come see you. I want to come see about you (that's how the song goes, right?) when all is said and done. I have about five months of ship duty to contend with (maybe three or four by the time this letter gets back to you)._

 _May I take you out, Olivia Pope?_ _Unless you find someone else by the time this gets back to you_ _. Just let me know. I'd love to take you out for a nice meal, perhaps some dancing? Surprisingly enough I have pretty good rhythm. Mom stacked me in dance classes growing up._

 _Love,_

 _The Preacher's Son_

Olivia giggles as she reads his signature. Her eyes drop down to the photo she holds in hand and she studies his facial expression. His grin is crooked, his smile wide, and his eyes a dull blue. Behind him are two planes – jets – she couldn't name to save her life. His Navy greens are unbuttoned at the top and tufts of curly chest hair stick out.

"Your smile is wider than a cat on a canary farm," Althea says.

Olivia lifts her eyes from the scratchy penmanship. Her gaze meets Thea's.

"He write?"

She nods.

"Well, what'd he say?"

"That he has pretty good rhythm." There's a devious twinkle in Olivia's eyes as the words leave her lips.

Althea throws the pot holder in hand at her niece.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** Happy be-lated Thanksgiving. Warning for some harsh language and violence ahead. Gonna try and update something else soon.

* * *

 _Sun peaks in through the partially opened curtains. Olivia's head lies on Fitz's chest; cheek pressed to pectoral. When she exhales, he inhales. They've done nothing except for what they'd done the first night they shared a bed: slept. The six months they were separated melts away as Fitz cracks open an eyelid, a wide smile cascading across his face. Olivia returns the gesture in kind, propping herself up on her elbows to gaze into his eyes. The moment feels perfect; fought for and hard earned._

 _She yawns and he reaches down, fingertip touching her nose._

" _You're so beautiful," he tells her._

 _Olivia's cheeks swell and a crimson color cross her face. "I can't believe you're here."_

" _I told you I was coming home to you."_

" _I know, it's just…" she looks away, mouth parted, "it's just, I never expected to be here with you."_

" _I told you, Olivia, I'll never let you leave me." Fitz's voice drops, the cadence changes and his hold around her grows tighter. Too tight. She winces under the pressure, a soft 'ow' coming from her lips. He's hurting her. He's…_

" _Fitz, you're hurting me."_

" _It's not Fitz, bitch."_

 _Olivia's eyes go wide with panic. Russell. She tries – and fails – to scramble away from him. In a blur of blankets and limbs, Russell pulls her to her feet, yanking her out of bed by her right wrist. He twists her arm and she gasps in pain, prompting his grip to loosen. He tosses her to the floor._

 _Just like the night he'd attacked she and Fitz, his eyes are wild; red with fire. Suddenly she isn't in her deceased cousin's bedroom in her aunt's home any more. She's back at Joe's, the hall beneath her hands as she tries to stand up._

" _Get up bitch! Up you little whore. Opening your legs for any white man that blinks in your direction. Get up!"_

 _She tries to hurry to her feet, afraid of the reaction her slow pace will prompt from Russell, but isn't fast enough. He grabs a handful of hair and whips her around, into the wall so hard that she winces._

" _Please stop, Russell, please!" Olivia screams._

 _He raises a closed hand, brings it so hard across her face, over her cheek bone, that she flies from his grasp and slams into the ground. The bathroom door opens, she hears someone step out into the hallway and looks up to find Fitz. His hands rest at his sides and he looks at her, eyes full of pity, but he doesn't move. Not even when Russell grabs her ankle, flipping her onto her back and pins her beneath him. His knee forces her legs apart and she's hysterical now. Crying and begging, trying her damnedest to buck him off of her._

" _Help, please, help!" she pleads, eyes on Fitz's, only to be met with Russell's hand over her mouth._

" _I told you bitch, I'll never let you leave me. The only way you're leaving me is in a casket. I'll kill you. I'll—"_

"OLIVIA!" _Someone shouts._

 _She struggles against Russell, squirms until her right hand is loose and her knuckles graze_ against something metal.

"OLIVIA!"

 _Russell stares at her with a twisted smirk; there's the metal again._

"LIVVIE!"

 _He raises his hand once more time and she picks up the metal, realizing it's the gun. She tries to twist over, onto her stomach, but Russell's weight on top of her is too much to bear. His hands wrap around her throat, thumbs pressing into her skin and the world starts to fade away._

"OLIVIA CAROLYN POPE! WAKE UP!" Althea's fingers bit into the flesh of Olivia's shoulders, shaking the young woman awake.

Olivia's eyes rip open and she screams. Her heart thumps and her stomach twists.

"It was just a dream baby, just a dream," Althea says as she pulls Olivia into her arms.

Beads of sweat bud at Olivia's hairline, causing the heat styled locks to spring upwards. A beat passes and then another as the upstairs bedroom that once housed her cousin pops up around her. The walls and window come into view seconds before her aunt's warm eyes match her own.

"Aunt Thea?" Olivia asks.

Thea nods. "It's me baby. You had a nightmare. It's okay, feel the feet beneath the floor and the bed beneath your body."

Olivia does as she's told and slowly finds her way back into her body. "What time is it?"

"A little past 4a.m."

"Oh no, did I wake you? I'm so sorry, I was –"

"I walk these halls plenty of times on my own; don't need no wakeup calls. I'm glad I was up, though. Heard you in here fighting up a storm."

"I'm sorry," Olivia repeats, "I'll go home with daddy this weekend so you can get some rest." Since that night nearly two months ago, Olivia's been back and forth between her father and aunt's home. Althea's house is the only place Eli lets her go to without issue and Olivia happily goes.

"Not necessary. Besides, we both know you're not ready to go back to your dad's just yet. That man is smothering you."

Olivia cracks a half smile that disappears seconds later. She knows her father means well, but he _is_ smothering her.

"How long these nightmares been going on?" Thea asks.

"A couple of weeks after Fitz left they started. I thought they'd gone away. It'd been a while, but they started up again. I think it's because Russell's birthday is in a few days and I haven't gotten a letter from Fitz in a bit."

"Well, Livvie, he's on a boat across an ocean. It's not easy to get letters in and out."

"You've been getting things from Marcus, though."

Althea's tongue darts out of her mouth, wetting her lips. "I…there's got to be a reason baby. Just be patient."

Olivia nods, trying to tug her frown into a smile, but fails. She stretches, pulls the thin sheet away from her body and lets her feet hit the ground. "I don't think I'll be going back to sleep. I think I'll go read downstairs for a little."

Althea sighs. "How about you and I dress up and go out tonight? There's this happenin' place on K. Just you and me, a girl's night?"

"I don't know…"

"Come on, Livvie. Get your mind off of it."

"Okay."

/

Later that day, and just an hour or so into night, Olivia and Althea dress and make their way to K Streets Black Noir. They settle and sit. Althea offers to grab drinks and leaves Olivia to admire the area. It isn't long before she draws someone's attention.

"Would a pretty lady like you want to go out there and shake a little somethin'?" A good looking man in a tight, soft yellow polo and brown pants asks Olivia. His afro is in a perfect circle and he has long eyelashes that tangle together when he blinks. He holds out his hand and Olivia's eyes study his features.

"Thank you, but I have to decline," she answers, crossing her legs and tugging on the paisley purple of her skirt. "I'm here with my aunt. We're…" Olivia looks back, to the bar, watching as Althea throws her head back in laughter masked beneath the jukebox that spins Eddie Kendrick's latest record. "Well, I was here with my aunt, but I think she might've just ditched me."

The man's eyes follow Olivia and then the corners of his mouth turn upward. He holds out his hand. "Jesse. Jesse Thomas."

Olivia looks at his hand before tentatively slipping her hand in his. She's surprised when he kisses the back of her hand instead of shaking it. "Olivia."

"So, Olivia, your aunt looks a little busy. I don't think she'd mind if I took you for a spin on the floor."

She chews on the inside of her cheek. Only three men have plagued her thoughts since that fateful May night and one of them is her father. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Jesse repeats, letting her hand go. "Don't know what? If you can dance? If you wanna dance with me? Which is it, pretty girl?"

"I have this friend, this uhm…this boyfriend and I don't, I don't think he'd like it." Olivia elaborates. Though she and Fitz have yet to put a title to their flirty letters, she thinks that this is her best option when it comes to Jesse.

"Is he a boyfriend or a friend who happens to be a boy?"

"Well, we're…we only started seeing each other before he was shipped out to sea."

"That doesn't sound too exclusive. I think you could spare a dance with a handsome stranger you've only know a minute longer than your friend who happens to be a boy."

"He's – I don't want—I—" Her words start and stop a few moments more before she relents, having the strong impression Jesse won't leave without one. "One dance."

/

His hands rest on her hips as they lazily sway to the music. Olivia has to admit, it feels nice to be in arms that don't belong to family for a brief moment.

"You're a very beautiful girl, Olivia."

"I'm still not giving you my number, Jesse." Olivia looks up at him. "I have a boyfriend."

"Ah, ah, uh, we've established that he's a boy who is a friend. And if he's dumb enough to run off to war instead of staying with you…"

"Who's to say he didn't get drafted?" Olivia shoots back at him. "But he wasn't. And he's not dumb; he actually graduated from Berkley."

"Well, I beg to differ with you, Miss Pope. A black man fighting for this country willingly? Not a smart man. This country doesn't love us."

She looks away, over to the table where the now off shift bartender chats up Althea. Olivia drags her eyes upward, her arms loosening around Jesse's neck. Her stomach sours as she runs over Jesse's assumption and she wonders what he'd say if she told him that Fitz's white. Suddenly feeling antagonistic, she decides to try her luck.

"Who said he looked like you and me?" she offers, right eyebrow slightly raised.

Jesse's smile grows. "A white boy? You? Really? You don't strike me as a bed wench, Miss Pope."

Fire ripples up Olivia's spine and she acts without thinking. She stomps down on Jesse's foot using the heel of her shoe.

He yelps, bending at the waist and shuddering. "What the hell was that?"

"I'm no one's bed wench you brick headed ass!" She tears away from him just as Althea scurries towards her. "And he is white."

Olivia pushes past her aunt and through the bar.

"Olivia!"

She ignores her aunt yelling behind her.

"Olivia."

And continues on until she's outside.

"Olivia Carolyn…" Althea yells, forcing Olivia to stop her in her tracks. "What the hell was that?"

"He called me a bed wench!"

"What? You…how'd you even get on that topic?"

"I told him I had a boyfriend and he assumed – does it even matter, I'm ready to go."

"Well baby, if you want to do this thing – whatever it is – with Fitz, you're going to have to realize that this is the territory that comes with it. Now, let me go get my bag and tell Frank I'm taking my niece home."

Get used to it? Olivia thinks. She frowns and briefly wonders if her aunt is right.

/

If he peels another potato, he's going to break it open over someone's head. He's been on kitchen duty for nearly three weeks now. He's earned the chore thanks to who he now considers a former friend. Jake Ballard. The smug ass and waste of space. He figures peeling potatoes is an easier fete to accomplish than washing and rewashing all of the jets aboard in the half ass summer the UK has to offer.

The kitchen door opens, it's Marcus with _another_ ten pound bag of potatoes. Fitz lets his head fall back on his shoulders.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"'Fraid not, my friend. You should see Ballard though, out on deck with one arm in a sling and the other holding a hose, sponge, and soap bottle all at once."

"I should've broke his damn jaw."

"Sure about that? You haven't had land or board privileges in how long now? Two letters from my cousin have ended and out of your hands and you can't read or answer either one for another week and a half."

"Don't fucking remind me."

Marcus holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Was it worth it? I thought you and Ballard were boys?"

Fit shrugs. "He stepped over the line so I knocked him back behind it."

Marcus chuckles. "You fractured one of his ribs and twisted his arm so hard it damn near popped out of its socket."

"And I should've broken his jaw, too."

"You still haven't told me what he said to get this reaction out of you."

Fitz cuts his eyes over to his friend. He frowns, wondering how much of what Ballard said that he should repeat. "Well…he asked me if he could borrow some stamps that day we were running deck drills. I told him where he could find them. He rifled through my drawers."

"So you broke his ribs and almost his arm because he snooped?"

Fitz sighs, sets the dull potato peeler down and rests his elbows on his knees. "No, he found some pictures that I had. Pictures Olivia sent me."

Marcus's face scrunches up. "Please tell me she was clothed in them all."

"She was. Still didn't stop Ballard for saying she was a pretty…a pretty…" he thinks about the word and his blood boils again. "He used the n-word and asked if he could try…"

"Negro?"

Fitz shakes his head.

"Nigger?" Marcus tries.

Fitz nods.

"Okay, bet." Marcus pulls up his pants and runs a thumb over his nose, flexing the muscles in his arms.

"What are you doing?"

"Going to finish the break you started." Marcus is halfway out of the kitchen when Fitz grabs the other man's wrist.

"It's not worth it. Plus, I already knocked his head off."

"Next sea training, I'm letting that bastard drowned."

"Can you do me a favor? If I write Liv a letter, will you slip it in with your mom's."

"As long as you don't sign it with your name or number. And you'll have to give me some stamps. But if you get my privileges taken away with yours…"

"I promise you, I won't."

/

 _6 July 1971_

 _Dear Fitz,_

 _Happy 4_ _th_ _! Well, late 4_ _th_ _. You'll probably get this at the end of July the way the mail runs here._

 _I'm glad that you have rhythm. I'd love to dance with you. Actually dance. When do you get back? Do you have a specific date? Will you be in Norfolk again? I don't mean to ask you a thousand questions. I'm sorry. I guess I should start by telling you some more about me? Wow this is weird, it's like dating through the mail._

 _Well, you know my name. You've met some of my family, so I guess I'll tell you about my mom. Her name_ _was_ _is Maya Pope. She's from Lorraine, OH. She and my dad met at Howard before my dad went off to serve in WWII. She was beautiful. My Aunt Thea says I look just like her, but that I have my dad's temper. I don't know about that. I have a lot of pictures of her and I think I look a little like her. The best thing about my mom, though, is that she gave me her gift of song. She passed when I was a kid. I don't think my dad's been on many dates since he lost her. They had an amazing love. I've always wanted that. I thought I did have it, but you know how that ended. But we're not talking about him._

 _Tell me about your parents, Fitz. Tell me your dreams. I want to know everything about you. You saw me when I needed you the most and I want to see who you are. Do you have siblings? Pets? What's the craziest thing you've ever done? Well, besides fly a jet off of a boat in the middle of nowhere._

 _Write back soon._

 _Love,_

 _Livvie._

* * *

 _16 July, 1971_

 _Dear Fitz,_

 _I hope you don't get overwhelmed by the letters. I just wanted you to be the first person to know that I'm singing again. Not at Joe's. Daddy will still only let me go to Aunt Thea's. Right now, I'm singing at church. I started going on Sundays with Aunt The and Harrison. Daddy sometimes comes. I've had two solos now. I don't want to stay solely non-secular, though. I still have Diana Ross sized dreams. But dad is right. I just need to find my footing again._

 _I'm sending you a care package. It's nothing big, really. Just some treats and things. I don't know if you have a record player there, but the record is just a demo I did ages ago. I hope you enjoy._

 _Oh and don't share with Marcus._

 _Love,_

 _Liv_

 _P.S: The photo is from the fourth. I thought I'd salute you in my red white and blues._

* * *

 _1 August, 1971_

 _Dear Fitz,_

 _Dad's letting me take a whack at Motown again. Well, not yet. We started talking about it a few days ago and you were the only person besides my aunt that I wanted to tell. Rumor has it that Motown is going to be moving to LA later this year. I've never been to LA, but let's see if daddy is going to keep his word. I'm thinking of returning to school, too. I know a lot of women don't have advanced degrees, but I've always thought of maybe doing a Masters in political science. Dad thinks I should go to law school, follow in his footsteps. I thought about it after the first time I graduated from Howard, but I think you can fill in the blank about what happened._

 _Anyways, I hope you got the care package. It wasn't much, like I said, but maybe just maybe it provided some comforts of home? I hope the sea is treating you right and that you write soon. Stay safe and push Marcus overboard._

 _Love,_

 _Olivia_

* * *

 _15 August 1971_

 _Dear Fitz,_

 _I haven't heard from you in a while. I don't know whether or not if I should keep writing. I hope everything is okay. I'm worried. Really worried. I don't think the UK is as dangerous as Vietnam, but I also read The Washington Post yesterday. It said that American forces are being sent to the middle east. You probably can't answer any of my questions, but just write me back, okay. I just want to know you're safe. I think you might be since Marcus can get word to my aunt._

 _Speaking of, I've been spending a lot of time with her. We've been talking about…about you and me. I think she supports us. She said that if and when I tell daddy she'll be there with me. I told her I didn't want to tell him anything yet because we haven't even gotten to go on a first date. I don't even know if you want to go on one. You're probably not interested any more. It's okay. I understand. I really do. You probably have someone else out there and it was presumptuous of me to assume that you were single or interested in waiting. I think, I think this'll be my last letter._

 _I don't want you to grow tired of me._

 _Best,_

 _Olivia._

/

Fitz reads the letters in succession, smiling, laughing and then nearly in tears as his eyes scan the perfect penmanship of the final letter. His eyes drift up to the calendar above his bed. It's August 31st and Olivia's letter is dated the 15th. She hasn't sent any letters since.

He cuts his eyes to the hall that leads to the other set of barracks and has half a mind to rip Jake out of bed and drag him up to deck and overboard. Goddamn asshole is about to make him lose out on the best thing he hasn't even had yet.

"We don't have all day, Grant," Marcus whispers. Under the cover of night and with the help of a fellow shipmate on mail duty, they've snuck into the mail room.

Fitz hurriedly shoves Olivia's letters back into their pouch and into the manila folder that reads his name.

"She thinks I'm not interested anymore," Fitz says as he shuts the cabinet.

"Hey, I said whatever happens between you two is between you two. I don't want to hear—"

"We're just talking. I swear. When my service date is up, I'd like to return home and take her out on a real date."

Marcus holds up his hands. "It's between you two. Don't want to hear about any of it. I just know as soon as my uncle finds out, he's going to hit the roof."

"Because I'm white?"

"Yes. There's no sugar coating it. He might've shook your hand all them months ago, but Olivia is an entirely different story. He's seen some shit. He and my mom spent the early part of their lives across the tracks from Klan county in Mississippi."

Fitz listens, nods, and heeds Marcus's words. For the first time, he begins to truly think about what it'll mean to be with Olivia. "Let's get back to our quarters."


End file.
